MODERN 
MERICAN  PLAYS 

COLLECTED  WITH  INTRODUCTION 
BY 

GEORGE  P.  BAKER 

Professor  of  Dramatic  Literature,  Harvard  University 


NEW  YORK 
ARCOURT,  BRACT,  AND  HOWE 
1920 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  of  the  plays  in  this 
^<>ok  are  strictly  reserved  by  the  authors.  Application  for  per 
mission  to  produce  any  one  of  the  plays  should  be  made  to  the 
respective  author 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK  AND   HOWE,    INC 


THE  QU'.NN  A  BODEN  COMPAN1 
RAHWAY.  N.  J. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION         *.        •        •        • 
As  A  MAN  THINKS  .        .        .     Augustus  Thomas 
THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM  David  Belasco   . 

Edward  Sheldon 


PAGE 
V 

1 

101 
215 


ROMANCE 

THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  .     Louis  Kaufman  Ans- 

pacher     . 

PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS       .     Ed-ward  Massey         .\    483 


436271 


INTRODUCTION 

The  plays  here  printed  are  not,  of  course,  the  only  five 
which  might  have  been  selected.  From  the  many  possible 
American  plays  of  the  last  ten  years  these  five  have  been 
chosen  because  decided  success  has  been  theirs,  and  be 
cause  today  they  are  worthy  of  professional  revival.  There 
is,  however,  a  third  test  which  has  excluded  many  plays 
otherwise  desirable, — the  sekctions  made  must  show  the 
greatest  possible  variety. 

Romance,  played  very  successfully  in  the  United  States 
for  a  season  or  two,  was  revived  by  Miss  Doris  Keane  in 
London  in  War  time.  Its  "  run "  was  over  a  thousand 
nights,  one  of  the  longest  on  record.  The  central  situation, 
an  unsophisticated  young  man  infatuated  with  an  actress, 
is  undeniably  not  new.  We  have  seen  it  in  Nance  Old- 
field,  and  more  recently  in  Barrie's  Rosalind,  indeed,  in  a 
dozen  other  plays.  What  lifts  Romance  free  of  triteness 
is  just  what  produced  its  unusual  success,  the  characteriza 
tion  of  Mme.  Cavallini.  So  inseparably  is  the  part  asso 
ciated  with  Miss  Keane,  who  first  acted  it,  that  it  is  im 
possible  exactly  to  distinguish  the  contributions  of  the 
author  and  the  actress  to  the  final  effect  of  perfect  char 
acterization.  After  all,  the  drama  is  a  collaborative  art, 
and  no  role — even  Hamlet  or  Lear — is  seen  at  its  best  till 
an  actor  of  such  sensitiveness  and  matured  technique  plays 
it  that  not  merely  what  the  text  obviously  says,  but  its 
slightest  implications  are  revealed.  In  Mme.  Cavallini,  as 
played,  author  and  actress  worked  in  perfect  accord. 

The  heroine   of  Romance   quickly  wins,   and  thereafter 
holds,  the  sympathy  of  the  audience.     The  fortunes  of  an 


/       vi  INTRODUCTION 

unsympathetic  heroine,  observers  of  our  stage  have  re 
peatedly  told  us,  an  American  audience  follows  unwillingly. 
It  always  resents,  according  to  the  same  wiseacres,  an 
unhappy  ending.  To  all  this  the  success  of  The  Un- 
chastened  Woman  has  been  a  positive  and  a  very  desirable 
denial.  Certainly  Mr.  Anspacher's  task  was  not  easy — to 
make  a  woman  essentially  repugnant  to  audiences  compel 
their  attention.  Nor  was  it  enough  to  make  Caroline 
Knollys  interesting.  The  public  must  recognize  her  as  a 
type  numerous  enough  and  dangerous  enough  to  warrant 
making  her  the  center  of  a  play,  which  inevitably  sets  an 
audience  thinking  how  women  like  her  may  be  kept  from 
the  tragedies  they  create.  Romance,  then,  depends  for  its 
appeal  on  the  dramatic  interest  with  which  it  tells  its  story, 
and  especially  on  the  complete  understanding  with  which 
it  draws  its  heroine.  The  Unchastened  Woman,  too,  draws 
its  central  figure  with  perfect  comprehension,  but  it  seeks 
to  do  what  Romance  d'oes  not, — move  an  audience  to  serious 
thinking  about  the  social  significance  of  that  figure.  The 
success  of  The  Unchastened  Woman  undoubtedly  helped 
prepare  our  audiences  for  their  recent  hearty  approval  of 
Mr.  Ervine's  Jane  Clegg  and  Mr.  O'Neill's  Beyond  the 
Horizon. 

The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm  and  As  a  Man  Thinks  prove 
that  our  drama  of  the  past  ten  years  has  tried  to  keep 
pace  with  the  public  in  some  of  their  thinking.  Mr. 
Thomas  has  given  a  thoroughly  dramatic  presentation  of 
one  of  the  conservative  answers  to  the  feminists  who  have 
urged  complete  emotional  freedom  for  women.  Mr.  Belasco 
dramatizes  the  borderland  between  the  seen  and  the  unseen 
of  which  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  has  written  so  persuasively. 
As  a  Man  Thinks  deals  not  with  people  of  the  theater,  but 
portraits  from  the  life  of  the  moment.  How  well  Seelig  is 
done !  How  good,  because  how  clear  yet  restrained,  is  the 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

drawing  of  the  Jewish  side  of  his  character!  Again  and 
again,  too,  the  play  solves  the  constantly  recurring  puzzle 
of  the  dramatist:  How  shall  I  translate  this  argument,  this 
needed  exposition  of  motives  or  central  facts,  into  terms  of 
absorbing  drama?  The  seeming  simplicity  of  the  emphasis 
on  the  details  which  later  make  Clayton  sure  that  it  was 
his  wife  who  went  to  De  Lota's  apartment  proves  its  iias- 
tery.  The  central  idea  of  As  a  Man  Thinks  may  not  be 
subtle,  nor  as  difficult  to  convey  in  the  theater  as  many 
others  recently  attempted  by  our  dramatists,  Dut  it  must 
be  admitted  that  this  play  completely  succeeds  in  trans 
lating  its  essential  didacticism  into  genuine  drama. 

Anyone  who  saw  Mr.  Warfield  in  The  Return  of  Peter 
Grimm  as  the  dreamy  idealist,  the  gentle  but  obstinate 
schemer,  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Mr.  Belasco  plans  to 
revive  the  play.  But  there  is  more  in  the  play  to  com 
mend  than  central  characterization.  Deft  touch  after 
touch  makes  us  swiftly  feel  that  we  are  on  the  borderland 
between  the  real  and  the  unreal:  and  the  difficult  atmos 
phere,  once  created,  is  perfectly  sustained.  Probably  %rhat 
is  most  remarkable  in  Peter  Grimm,  however,  is  the  neatness 
and  sureness  of  emphasis.  By  a  well  chosen  phrase,  by 
iteration,  by  illustration,  by  clever  disguising  of  exposition 
as  an  emotional  scene,  Mr.  Belasco  puts  into  the  ninds  of 
his  audience  the  ideas  as  to  the  occult  which  are  essential 
if  the  play  is  to  develop  with  the  emotional  results  he 
desires. 

Plots  and  Playwrights,  a  decided  success  originally  in 
The  47  Workshop  and  later  with  The  Washington  Square 
Players,  is,  of  course,  criticism  made  drama.  So  well  has 
this  been  done  that  its  three  short  scenes  stir  audiences 
emotionally,  and  its  long  burlesque  moves  to  laughter  or 
sympathetic  tears  according  as  an  auditor  has  been  well 
trained  in  the  theater  or  has  depended  on  more  extravagant 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

motion  pictures  and  melodrama.  Revived  in  1918  at  one 
of  the  large  War  camps,  the  three  short  scenes  went  rather 
tamely,  but  the  burlesque  was  followed  absorbedly.  More 
than  one  hearer  turned  aside  to  brush  from  his  manly 
cheek  the  furtive  tear  of  sympathy  for  the  ever  trustful 
mother  and  the  erring  daughter ! 

Plots  and  Playwrights,  with  its  prologue,  three  one  acts 
slightly  connected,  its  long  burlesque,  and  its  epilogue,  is, 
too,  an  interesting  example  of  the  constantly  increasing 
attempts  to  break  free  from  the  time-honored  division  of 
a  play  into  three,  four,  or  five  acts. 

Primarily,  of  course,  this  book  is  intended  to  make  its' 
plays  more  accessible  for  readers.  Yet  it  will  be  disap 
pointing  if  there  are  not  two  other  results.  From  all  over 
the  country  comes  the  demand  of  amateur  actors  for  plays 
of  literary  quality  from  the  professional  stage.  Will  not 
acquaintance  with  such  books  as  this  lead  readers  to  apply 
to  the  dramatists  represented  for  acting  rights?  It  is  far 
more  worth  while  to  attempt  the  giving  of  a  significant 
play  than  to  act  a  bad  play  better.  Originally  Plots  and 
Playwrights  was  produced  by  The  4*7  Workshop. 

Even,  however,  if  reading  these  plays  does  not  lead  to 
amateur  production  of  all  of  them,  surely  it  will  create  a 
demand  for  frequent  revivals  by  local  stock  companies. 
We  do  not  see  enough  of  some  American  plays  of  the  past 
three  decades.  Many  years  ago  everyone  was  talking  of 
Bronson  Howard's  The  Banker's  Daughter.  His  farce, 
Saratoga,  was  one  of  the  earlier  plays  to  conquer  London. 
How  many  of  the  generation  which  has  come  into  the 
theater  since  1910  have  had  any  chance  to  see  either  of 
these  plays?  WThy  should  Clyde  Fitch  be  a  man  of  whom 
young  people  hear  today,  but  whose  plays  they  see  hardly 
at  all?  No  history  of  the  American  drama  can  neglect  his 
work  as  do  the  managers  of  the  stock  theaters.  If  any 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

American  company  would  give  them  as  well  as  the  English 
actors  at  the  Copley  Theater,  Boston,  play  the  English 
pieces  of  his  contemporaries,  they  would  find  a  sufficient 
public  to  warrant  the  venture.  There  are  people  who 
still  talk  of  James  A.  Herne's  Griffith  Davenport  as  nota 
ble  among  the  first  forerunners  of  the  newer  American 
drama.  Even  had  the  manuscript  not  been  destroyed  when 
Mr.  Herne's  house  was  burned,  we  should  have  seen  few 
revivals  of  it.  Surely  books  like  this  may  do  a  little  to 
overcome  this  foolish  worship  of  the  recent  as  the  neces 
sarily  novel,  this  willingness  to  attend  a  poor  play  of  the 
moment  instead  of  a  play  of  proved  good  quality  from  flhe 
nearer  past.  Of  course,  plays  which  seemed  likely  to  have 
permanent  attractiveness  do  become  strange  and  uninter 
esting,  but  only  by  the  sifting  process  of  occasional  revival 
shall  we  come  to  know  which  plays  have  for  the  public 
lasting  significance. 

Twenty  years  ago  we  had  pretty  well  discarded  adapta 
tions  from  French  and  German  farces  which  had  been  the 
great  successes  of  an  earlier  period.  We  were  just  emerg 
ing  from  a  time  when  the  leading  American  managers  relied 
principally  on  successes  from  London.  Repetitions  of 
plays  by  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  Oscar 
Wilde,  and  G.  B.  Shaw  were  helping  to  shape  the  American 
drama  in  the  first  dozen  years  of  the  present  century. 
The  last  ten  years  have  shown  that  our  public,  while  still 
enjoying  many  of  the  best  plays  from  across  the  Atlantic, 
has  welcomed  most  heartily  the  work  of  American  dram 
atists.  For  some  time  it  has  been  the  custom  to  decry 
post-War  conditions  in  the  American  theater.  Neverthe 
less  the  recovery  of  the  drama  has  been  quicker  in  New 
York  than  in  either  London  or  Paris.  The  present  Amer 
ican  season  has  shown  more  really  interesting  plays,  has 
brought  forward  more  new  writers  of  promise  than  has  the 


x  INTRODUCTION 

London  season.  A  public  which  heartily  welcomes  Beyond 
the  Horizon  and  Jane  Clegg  is  not  the  old  public.  It 
seems  now  as  if  there  really  were  in  New  York  an  audi 
ence  large  enough  to  make  successful  any  kind  of  drama 
worthy  attention.  With  that  newer  public  created  out  of 
the  War,  with  the  probable  greater  effectiveness  of  the 
dramatists  who  have  been  writing  successfully  for  us,  with 
the  promise  shown  by  the  newer  writers,  this  is  no  time 
for  pessimism.  If  the  five  plays  chosen  here  from  many 
other  possibilities  show  the  atmosphere,  characterization, 
swift  response  to  the  interests  of  the  public,  and  technique 
already  remarked,  surely  we  have  the  right  to  hope  that 
the  next  decade  will  give  us  an  American  drama  which; 
in  its  mirroring  of  American  life,  will  be  even  more  varied 
in  form,  even  richer  in  content. 

GEORGE  P.  BAKER, 


AS  A  MAN  THINKS 

A  Play  in  Four  Acts 

By 
AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

AUGUSTUS  THOMAS  was  born  at  St.  Louis,  January  8,  1859. 
He  was  educated  in  the  St.  Louis  public  schools  and  studied 
law  for  two  years.  He  has  been  variously  page  boy  for 
the  41st  Congress,  special  writer  and  illustrator  on  the 
St.  Louis,  Kansas  City,  and  New  York  papers,  editor  and 
proprietor  of  the  Kansas  City  Mirror.  His  plays  are 
Alabama,  In  Missouri,  Arizona,  The  Earl  of  Pawtucket, 
The  Education  of  Mr.  Pipp,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  On  the 
Quiet,  Mrs.  Leffingwell's  Boots,  The  Other  Girl,  The  Bur 
glar,  The  Embassy  Ball,  The  Witching  Hour,  The  Harvest 
Moon,  As  a  Man  Thinks,  Rio  Grande,  Indian  Summer,  The 
Copperhead,  Palmy  Days. 

As  a  Man  Thinks  was  first  presented  at  the  39th  Street 
Theater,  New  York,  March  13,  1911,  with  John  Mason  as 
Dr.  Seelig. 


[Copyright,  1911,  by  Duffield  &  Company] 


CHARACTERS 

VEDAH 

DR.  SEELIG 

HOLLAND,  Seelig's  footman 

BUTLER 

MRS.  CLAYTON 

JULIAN  BURRILL 

BENJAMIN  DE  LOTA 

FRANK  CLAYTON 

MRS.  SEELIG 

SUTTON,  Clayton's  footman 

Miss  DOANE 

JUDGE  HOOVER 

DICK 


AS  A  MAN  THINKS 

ACT  I 

[SCENE:  Drawing  Room  of  the  residence  of  DOCTOR 
SEELIG.  Two  small  sofas  set  at  right  angles  to  the 
fireplace  form  a  kind  of  inglenook.  At  the  outer  ends 
of  the  sofas  are  two  marble  pedestals,  each  surmounted 
by  an  antique  vase. 

Time:   An   afternoon   in   late   September.      VEDAH 
SEELIG,   a  young  girl,   is  at   the  piano  and  playing. 
After  a  few  bars  there  is  the  sound  of  a  door  closing. 
VEDAH  listens,  then  speaks.] 
VEDAH.    Papa  ? 
SEELIG.    Yes. 
VEDAH.     Alone  ? 

SEELIG.      Alone.      [He   enters   from   the   hall.      VEDAH 
meets  and  kisses  him.]     Mother  home? 
VEDAH.    She  is  lying  down. 
SEELIG.     Is  mother  ill? 
VEDAH.     Only  resting. 
SEELIG.    Ah — where  is  the  tea? 
VEDAH.     It  isn't  time. 

SEELIG.     [Regarding  his  watch.]     Quarter  of  five. 
VEDAH.     [Laughing.]     But  no  company. 
SEELIG.     Company?     My  dear  Vedah.     Tea  with  me  is 
not  a  function — it's  a  stimulant.     [He  calls  to  a  footman 
passing.]     Holland. 

HOLLAND.      [Pausing  at  doorway.]      Yes,   sir. 
SEELIG.     Tell  the  butler — some  tea.     [HOLLAND  goes.] 

3 


AS  A  MAN  THINKS 


[Act  I 


VEDAH.  Now,  Papa. 

SEELIG.  [Affectionately  imitating  her.']  "  Now,  Papa." 

You  want  to  drive  me  into  dissipation. 

VEDAH.  But  the  others  will  think  they're  late. 

SEELIG.  I  shan't  grudge  them  that  accuracy — they  are 
late.  I  don't  wonder  at  some  of  them,  but  I'm  astonished  at 
De  Lota. 

VEDAH.  [Pause.']     De  Lota? 

SEELIG.  Yes. 

VEDAH.  Is  Mr.  De  Lota  coming? 

SEELIG.  I  asked  him  to  come. 

VEDAH.  Why? 

SEELIG.  Meet  your  artist — 

VEDAH.  But,  Papa — 

SEELIG.  [Playfully.]     Well,  scold  me. 

VEDAH.  But — Papa. 

SEELIG.  First  to  famish  for  a  little  tea — and  then  to  be 
reprimanded  for  inviting  a  prospective  son-in-law. 

VBDAH.  I  don't  want  Mr.  Burrill  and  Mr.  De  Lota  to 
meet. 

SEELIG.  Not  meet — ? 

VEDAH.  Just  yet. 

SEELIG.  Why  not? 

VEDAH.  I  haven't  told  anybody  of  my  engagement  to 
Mr.  De  Lota. 

SEELIG.  Well? 

VEDAH.  Well — he  carries  himself  so — so — 

SEELIG.  Proudly? 

VEDAH.  So  much  like  a  proprietor  that  it's  hard  to  ex 
plain  to  others — strangers  especially. 

SEELIG.  By  "  strangers  especially  "  you  mean  Mr.  Bur- 
rill? 

VEDAH.  Yes. 

SEELIG.  Is  Mr.  Burrill's  opinion  important? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  5 

VEDAH.     His  refinement  is  important. 
SEELIG.     Refinement? 

VEDAH.      Yes — the   quality   that   you   admire   in   men — 
the  quality  that  Mr.  De  Lota  sometimes  lacks. 
SEELIG.     When — for  example? 
VEDAH.     I've  just  told  you. 
SEELIG.     Well,  tell  me  again. 

VEDAH.     When  he  gives  the  impression  of — of — owning 
me. 

SEELIG.     [Pause.'}     But  after  all,  isn't  there  a  compli 
ment  in  that? 

VEDAH.    There's  considerable  annoyance  in  it. 
SEELIG.     Oh — [A  butler  enters,  gets  tea  table,  which  he 
places  center  and  goes  out.}     If  you  and  De  Lota  announced 
your  engagement  his  manner  might — seem  more  natural — 
to  strangers  especially. 

VEDAH.     I  don't  wish  it  announced. 

SEELIG.  It  was  to  have  been  announced  in  September 
wasn't  it? 

VEDAH.     I  know — but  I'm  waiting. 

HOLLAND.  [Appearing  in  doorway  and  announcing.'} 
Mrs.  Clayton. 

[MRS.  ELINOR  CLAYTON,  a  blonde  and  blue-eyed  woman 

of  delicate  charm  and  distinction,  enters. 
VEDAH.     Elinor!      [Kisses  her.}     How  good  of  you  to 
come  so  early. 

ELINOR.     Doctor. 

SEELIG.     [Shaking  hands  with  MRS.  CLAYTON.]     Elinor., 
ELINOR.     [Seeing  the  empty  tea  table.]     Am  I  the  first? 
VEDAH.    The  very  first. 
SEELIG.     If  I'm  not — counted. 

ELINOR.  You're  first  in  every  situation,  Doctor.  [7To 
VEDAH.]  I  hope  to  have  a  moment  with  your  father  before 
the  others  call. 


6  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

VEDAH.     Professionally? 

ELINOR.    Don't  I  look  the  invalid?    How's  your  mother? 
VEDAH.     Fine,  thank  you. 

ELINOR.  And  to  see  her  on  a  matter  about  as  unimportant 
*as  my  medical  errand. 

VEDAH.    I'll  leave  you  together  while  I  tell  Mama. 

[She  goes  out. 

ELINOR.  [Sitting.]  When  I  came  to  see  you  last 
'time —  ? 

SEELIG.    Yes? 

ELINOR.     You  told  me  the  truth  about  myself? 

SEELIG.     My  dear  Mrs.  Clayton. 

ELINOR.  Of  course  you  did  as  far  as  you  told  me  any 
thing,  but  I  thought  you  might  be  withholding  something. 

SEELIG.  I  don't  know  a  woman  in  better  physical  condi 
tion.  [He  takes  a  chair  beside  her.~\ 

ELINOR.  Well,  I  want  you  to  give  me  something  to  make 
me  sleep. 

SEELIG.     Sleep ! 

ELINOR.  I  wake  about  four  in  the  morning  and — stay 
awake. 

SEELIG.    How  often  has  this  happened? 

ELINOR.  Ever  since  I  came  to  see  you — and  a  week 
before  that. 

SEELIG.     'M — [Pause."]     Anything  troubling  you? 

ELINOR.     No. 

SEELIG.    Do  you  stay  wide  awake  or — only  partly  so? 

ELINOR.    Awake. 

SEELIG.     Thinking? 

ELINOR.    Yes. 

SEELIG.     Of  what? 

ELINOR.    Oh — everything. 

SEELIG.     But  principally — ? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  7 

ELINOR.  Principally — [Pause.]  That  old  trouble  at 
Atlantic  City. 

SEELIG.    Anything  in  Frank's  conduct  to  revive  that? 

ELINOR.     No — but — 

SEELIG.     What? 

ELINOR.  I  think — sometimes  that  I  felt  that  trouble 
more  than  any  of  us — even  I  thought  I  felt  it. 

SEELIG.    You  forgave  Frank,  didn't  you? 

ELINOR.  Yes — but  it  was  a  good  deal  for  a  wife  to  over 
look. 

SEELIG.     You  mean  you  didn't  forgive  him? 

ELINOR.  I  mean  the  hurt  was  deeper  than  I  knew — 
deeper  than  I  could  know  except  as  time  taught  me  its 
depth. 

SEELIG.  Your  thoughts  on  that  are  what  wake  you  in  the 
early  morning? 

ELINOR.     And  keep  me  awake. 

SEELIG.    Well,  let's  talk  about  it. 

ELINOR.     I  don't  wish  to  talk  about  it,  Doctor. 

[She  moves  to  a  seat  near  the  window. 

SEELIG.  In  surgery  we  sometimes  find  a  condition  where 
a  wound  has  healed  too  quickly  and  on  the  surface  only. 
The  treatment  is  to  re-open  it  entirely.  A  mental  trouble 
has  its  analogy.  Better  talk  of  it.  [He  goes  to  a  scat 
beside  her.]  Frank  was  foolish.  Under  the  law  you  might 
have  abandoned  him  to  his  folly.  In  that  case,  with  his 
temperament — [Pause.]  Two  years?  He'd  have  been — 
well — "  a  failure  "  is  too  gentle  a  description.  As  it  is, 
consider  his  advancement  in  the  two  years — his  develop 
ment — power.  All  due  to  your  wisdom,  my  dear  Elinor — 
to  your  wisdom  and  forbearance — to  your  love  for  him — 
[Pause.]  That  sums  it  up — you  do  love  him. 

ELINOR.      [Earnestly.]      Yes. 

SEELIG.    Frank  is  important — he  influences  public  opinion 


8  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

with  his  magazines  and  papers.  He  addresses  an  audience 
of  two  millions,  let  us  say.  In  the  great  scheme  of  the 
world  Frank  is  a  factor — a  big  factor — isn't  he? 

ELINOR.     Yes — I  suppose  he  is. 

SEELIG.  [Cheeringly.]  Well,  there  you  are.  Your  abid 
ing  love  for  him  made  all  the  difference  between  success 
and  failure.  All  the  forces  radiating  from  Frank  really  do 
so  because  of  your  loyalty  at  a  supreme  moment.  That's 
a  large  commission,  isn't  it?  The  fates  made  you  their 
chosen  instrument — their  deputy.  If  Frank  hadn't  needed 
help  you  couldn't  have  given  it,  could  you? 

ELINOR.     Of  course  not. 

SEELIG.  [Rising  energetically.]  Well,  don't  regret  hav 
ing  been  useful — be  proud  of  it. 

ELINOR.  But  a  man  who  has  once  committed  such  a  fault 
— may  do  so  again. 

SEELIG.  [Pleasantly.]  You're  assuming  that  we  learn 
nothing  from  our  mistakes — we  men. 

ELINOR.     Well,  do  you? 

SEELIG.  [Smiling.]  As  a  physician — I'd  hate  to  tell  you 
how  much. 

ELINOR.     I  couldn't  go  through  it  again. 

SEELIG.     You  won't  have  to. 

ELINOR.  [Going  to  SEELIG.]  And  you  won't  give  me 
anything  for  my  insomnia? 

SEELIG.     Isn't  a  point  of  view  something? 

ELINOR.     Yes,  if  I  can  take  it. 

SEELIG.  You  did  take  it.  I  saw  the  care  go  out  of  those 
eyes — and  the  peace  come  into  them. 

ELINOR.  [Pause.]  You're  a  dear.  [She  gratefully  and 
impulsively  takes  SEELIG'S  hand.] 

VEDAH.     May  I  come  in? 

SEELIG.     Yes. 

[VEDAH  enters. 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  9 

VEDAH.    Mama  wants  you  to  come  up,  Elinor. 

ELINOR.  Yes — [As  VEDAH  starts  with  her.]  Oh,  I'll 
go  alone. 

VEDAH.     But  don't  desert  me  entirely. 

[ELINOR  goes  out~ 

SEELIG.     Mama  not  coming  down? 

VEDAH.     No. 

[The  BUTLER  enters  with  tea  service — lighted  lamp., 
etc.,  which  he  puts  on  the  table  and  goes  out. 

SEELIG.     When  did  you  first  meet  Mr.  Burrill? 

VEDAH.     With  you — at  his  exhibition. 

SEELIG.     That  was  in  September. 

VEDAH.    Yes. 

SEELING.     [Pause.]     Vedah,  I  want  to  help  Mr.  Burrill — 

VEDAH.    He  has  a  lot  of  talent. 

SEELIG.  I'm  going  to  take  down  my  beautiful  vases 
De  Lota  gave  us.  [He  caresses  a  vase  on  one  of  the  pedes 
tals.] 

VEDAH.     They're  deadly — 

SEELIG.    And  put  up  Mr.  Burrill's  statuettes — 

VEDAH.     That's  helping  ourselves. 

SEELIG.  I'm  going  to  enlist  Clayton  in  Mr.  Burrill's 
fight  with  the  architects. 

VEDAH.     That's  "  copy  "  for  Clayton's. 

SEELIG.     But  Mr.  Burrill  is  [Pause.]  not  a  Jew. 

VEDAH.  [Pouring  tea.]  There's  no  race  nor  religion  to 
art,  is  there? 

SEELIG.  There  frequently  is  to  the  artist.  [Tenderly.] 
Careful,  my  pet.  Remember — your  happiness  will  be — with 
your  own  race.  [VEDAH  gives  SEELIG  his  tea. 

HOLLAND.     [Appears  and  announces.]     Mr.  Burrill. 

VEDAH.     Show  Mr.  Burrill  in.  [HOLLAND  goes. 

SEELIG.     Second  call  this  week,  isn't  it? 

VEDAH.     Yes. 


10  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

SEELIG.     You  know,,  he  has  some  rights. 

VEDAH.     You  mean — ? 

SEELIG.    His  heart — 

[  Enter  BURRILL,  a  young  man  of  twenty-eight  years. 

VEDAH.     Good  afternoon. 

BURRILL.    How  do  you  do?     [They  shake  hands.~\ 

SEELIG.     How  are  you? 

BURRILL.    Fine,  thank  you. 

SEELIG.     Any  more  news  of  the  court  house  decoration? 

BURRILL.     Nothing  different. 

VEDAH.    How  will  you  take  your  tea,  Mr.  Burrill? 

BURRILL.     Submissively.     I  take  it  only  because  I  admire 
its  preparation. 

SEELIG.     We  still  struggle  along  with  our  vases.      [He 
indicates  the  vases  on  the  pedestals.'] 

BURRILL.     I  understand  your  reluctance  to  move  them. 

SEELIG.     Only  waiting  for  your  statuettes. 

BURRILL.     They  haven't  come? 

SEELIG.     No. 

VEDAH.     I  think  they  did,  Papa.     Something  dreadfully 
heavy  came  this  morning. 

SEELIG.     Well ! 

VEDAH.     I  was  afraid  to  unpack  them. 

BURRILL.      [Laughing.]      They're  bronze. 

[VEDAH  gives  BURRILL  his  tea.    She  then  goes 
to  the  door  and  pushes  the  electric  button. 

SEELIG.     Do   you  know   Clayton — the  publisher — Clay 
ton's  magazine  ? 

BURRILL.     Reputation. 

SEELIG.  He's  a  live  wire — Clayton. 

BURRILL.    Yes. 

[The  BUTLER  enters. 

VEDAH.     The  expressman  brought  a  package  this  morn 
ing? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  It 

BUTLER.     Yes,  M'm — two  statues. 

VEDAH.     How  do  you  know? 

BUTLER.     I  opened  it. 

VEDAH.     You  opened  it! 

BUTLER.     [Looking  to  SEELIG.]     Mrs.  Seelig  told  me  to 
open  it. 

VEDAH.     Mama  told  him  to  open  it.     Would  you  have 
thought  it? 

SEELIG.     [To  BURRILL.]     How  was  the  box  addressed? 

BURRILL.     To  you. 

SEELIG.     [Dryly.']     I  would  have  thought  it — yes — 

VEDAH.     Bring  the  statuettes  here. 

BUTLER.    They  are  in  Mrs.  Seelig's  room. 

VEDAH.     I'll  go  with  you  and  get  them — Excuse  me — 

[VEDAH  and  the  BUTLER  go  out. 

SEELIG.   .  I've  asked  Clayton  to  drop  in  on  his  way  up 
town. 

BURRILL.     I  shall  be  glad  to  meet  him. 

SEELIG.     Mrs.  Clayton  is  here.     Have  you  met  her? 

BURRILL.     No. 

SEELIG.      She    was    a    Miss    Hoover.      Judge    Hoover's 
daughter. 

BURRILL.     [Nodding.]     The  newspapers  keep  one  pretty 
well  informed. 

SEELIG.     Unfortunate,  that  notoriety. 

BURRILL.     Can't  be  agreeable. 

SEELIG.    Prosperity  tries  a  man  more  than  poverty  does — 

BURRILL.     So  I've  read — 

SEELIG.      Clayton  makes  two  millions   a  year   from  his 
publications — 

BURRILL.    Think  of  it! 

SEELIG.     His  temptations  were  proportionate  to  his  sud 
den  success  and — well,  she  is  a  most  sensible  woman. 

BURRILL.     Forgave  everything  I  believe. 


12  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

SEELIG.  Not  too  meekly — I  assure  you — but — they  have 
a  little  boy  and — as  I  say — she  is  a  most  sensible  woman. 
As  for  Clayton — well  I  guess  Clayton  is  sufficiently  contrite. 

£VEDAH  and  the  BUTLER  re-enter,  tine  BUTLER  carries 
two  bronze  figurines. 

VEDAH.  [Indicating  a  pedestal.~\  I  think  the  girl  on 
that  pillar —  And  the  man  on  that  one — 

SEELIG.     I'd  put  the  girl  here — 

VEDAH.    Why? 

SEELIG.  See  it  first.  [He  takes  the  female  -figure  from 
the  BUTLER  who  places  the  male  fgure  on  the  floor  and  goes 
out] 

VEDAH.     She's  too  darling  for  anything. 

SEELIG.  [Placing  the  statuette  on  the  tea  table.~\  Your 
figures  are  even  handsomer  here,  than  at  the  exhibition. 

BURRILL.     The  room  helps  them. 

SEELIG.  [With  the  statuette  which  he  displays.']  Look, 
Vedah!  Isn't  she  graceful  in  every  view? 

VEDAH.     She  is. 

SEELIG.  Do  you  know  your  nymph  reminds  me  of  those 
stunning  little  things  by  Theodore  Riviere  ? 

BURRILL.  That's  very  interesting.  The  girl  that  posed 
for  this  was  a  model  for  Riviere. 

SEELIG.  [Playfully.']  Well,  there  you  are — I  shall  set 
up  as  a  connoisseur. 

VEDAH.     You  promised  to  bring  her  photograph. 

BURRILL.     I  have  brought  it. 

SEELIG.      [Half  anxiously. .]      But — posing? 

BURRILL.     Oh,  no — street  costume. 

SEELIG.    Oh — 

BURRILL.  There — [He  takes  a  photograph  from  his 
pocket  and  hands  it  to  VEDAH.] 

SEELIG.  [Sitting  comfortably.]  I  don't  know  why  sculp 
ture  is  so  much  more  modest  than  photography — but — it  is. 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  13 

BURRILL.    The  artist  is  a  mediator. 

SEELIG.     Does  that  explain  it? 

BURRILL.     Doesn't  it? 

SEELIG.     I  don't  know — I've  never  been  an  artist. 

VEDAH.     Nor  a  photographer. 

SEELIG.     Nor,  for  that  matter,  a  beautiful  female  model. 

VEDAH.  [Carrying  the  photograph  to  SEELIG.]  See, 
Papa — isn't  that  face  angelic? 

SEELIG.  It  is — It  is — [To  BURRILL.]  And  I  dare  say 
the  lady  herself  was — [Indicates  abandon.] 

BURRILL.  No — she  wasn't  a  bad  sort.  She  has  a  right 
to  the  face. 

VEDAH.  [With  girlish  enthusiasm.]  Those  eyes,  Papa! 
And  that  beautiful  nose  and  mouth.  Why,  anybody  could 
love  her. 

BURRILL.     Well — a  good  many  did. 

VEDAH.    Of  whom  does  she  make  you — think? 

SEELIG.     Some  player. 

VEDAH.    Duse.     [SEELIG  nods] 

BURRILL.     The  resemblance  is  often  remarked. 

VEDAH.     She  should  have  been  an  actress. 

BURRILL.  [Shaking  his  head.]  She  tried  acting  and 
failed. 

VEDAH.    Did  you  see  her? 

BURRILL.  Before  my  time.  Antoine  gave  her  a  very 
good  chance  in  his  theater,  but — she  was  only  a  model. 

SEELIG.  Yes,  if  Antoine  couldn't  make  her  act.  [VEDAH 
returns  the  photograph  to  BURRILL.] 

BURRILL.  But — a  fine  girl  for  all  that — warm  hearted 
— most  grateful  to  the  man  who  had  got  her  the  chance. 

VEDAH.  Well,  if  anybody  got  me  a  place  in  Antoine's 
theater  I'd  be  grateful.  [She  returns  to  the  statuette  ex 
amining  it  closely.]  I'm  sorry  we  can't  see  her  mouth. 

SEELIG.    You  can't?     [Also  examines  the  statuette.] 


14  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

BURRILL.  No — our  early  Greeks  played  with  those  pipes 
tied  to  the  face. 

VEDAH.     I'm  going  to  put  her  on  her  pedestal. 

BURRILL.  Let  me.  [He  takes  the  statuette  from  the 
table.] 

VEDAH.    Take  your  old  vases,  Papa. 

BURRILL.     Old  vases ! 

SEELIG.  [Taking  the  vases  from  the  pedestals.]  The 
finest  specimens  in  America,  Mr.  Burrill. 

BURRILL.     Exquisite — where  did  you  find  them? 

SEELIG.  Benjamin  De  Lota  brought  them  from  Genoa. 
De  Lota  does  art  and  music  for  Clayton ! 

BURRILL.     Charming. 

SEELIG.  I  shall  promote  them  to  my  library.  [He  goes 
toward  the  door.]  I — I  regard  them  somewhat  as  a  bribe. 

BURRILL.    A  bribe? 

VEDAH.     [Expostulating.]     Papa ! 

SEELIG.  De  Lota  gave  them  to  me — and  in  the  same 
interview  asked  me  to — to  become  his  father-in-law — an 
intimate  and  antique  relation — a  time-honored  method. 
[Regards  vases.]  Ah,  well.  [SEELIG  goes  out  through  the 
library  door.] 

BURRILL.     [Dashed  with  the  news.]     His  father-in-law. 

VEDAH.  You  hadn't  heard?  [BURRILL  shakes  head, 
avoiding  her  gaze.]  Why,  yes.  [Pause.]  May  I  pour  you 
some  more  tea? 

BURRILL.     No,  thank  you.  [He  walks  away.] 

VEDAH.     Do  you  know  Mr.  De  Lota? 

BURRILL.    No. 

VEDAH.  He  wrote  that  beautiful  notice  in  Clayton's 
about  your  work. 

BURRILL.  [Moodily  at  window.]  I  know  his  articles, 
of  course. 

VEDAH.     Shan't  we  put  up  the  dancing  man  too  ? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  15 

BURRILL.  [Rousing  himself.]  Let  me.  [He  puts  the 
male  figurine  on  the  second  pedestal.] 

VEDAH.    They  go  well  there,  don't  they  ? 

BURRILL.    Very  well. 

VEDAH.    Attendant  spirits  of  my  fireside. 

BURRILL.     They  are  honored. 

VEDAH.     Do  you  know  why  I  like  them? 

BURRILL.     Why? 

VEDAH.  [Impressively.]  They  are  just  a  girl  and  a 
man — nothing  more — with  their  pan  pipes — their  freedom 
— the  joy  of  existence — 

BURRILL.  [Forcing  a  gayety.~\  That  sounds  like  pagan 
ism. 

VEDAH.     I  am  a  pagan. 

BURRILL.     And  the  gentleman? 

VEDAH.     Mr.  De  Lota? 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

VEDAH.     Mr.  De  Lota — is  a  Jew. 

BURRILL.  [Pause.]  Well,  I'm  a  pagan  myself — a  Wal 
ter  Pater  pagan. 

VEDAH.  Oh,  yes.  I,  too,  must  have  the  sunshine,  the 
poetry,  the  festivals. 

BURRILL.  And  you  saw  somewhat  of  that  in  my  little 
figures  ? 

VEDAH.    Yes — 

BURRILL.  You  hinted  as  much  that  day  at  the  exhibition 
— thousands  had  walked  by  and  looked  at  their  catalogues 
— but  you — only  you — interpreted  them.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  much  that  meant  to  me. 

VEDAH.    I  wonder  if  you  know — that  we — [Pause.] 

BURRILL.     We  what? 

VEDAH.    Were  never  introduced  to  each  other. 

BURRILL.     I  hug  that  to  my  memory. 

VEDAH.    A  friend  offered — but  I  fibbed.     I  said  I  knew 


16  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

you   already.      An   introduction   would   have   been — well — 
[Rises  impatiently.] 

BURRILL.     What? 

VEDAH.  A  strait-jacket  on  your  dancer.  [She  pauses 
and  comes  near  him.]  But  it  has  been  wrong  to  make  yon 
call  here,  hasn't  it? 

BURRILL.    Has  it? 

VEDAH.     Tell  me. 

BURRILL.  [With  renewed  fervor. ,]  Not  if  they  are  really 
to  be  the  attendant  spirits. 

VEDAH.  [Evading  his  manner  and  going  to  the  first 
statuette.]  Why  did  you  get  her  a  place  in  Antoine's 
theater? 

BURRILL.     I  didn't. 

VEDAH.     Then  how  do  you  know  she  was  grateful? 

BURRILL.  The  man  who  got  her  the  place — afterwards 
committed — committed  a  crime  and  was  on  trial  in  Paris. 
Mimi  had  then  become  a  model  and  was  posing  for  Riviere 
and  me  and  other  artists.  She  dragged  us — Antoine — 
Riviere — me — everybody — to  the  court  house  in  a  frenzied 
effort  to  free  him. 

VEDAH.     Maybe  she  loved  him. 

BURRILL.  I  think  not — simply  gratitude  for  his  interest. 
But  that's  a  rare  virtue. 

[MRS.  ELINOR  CLAYTON  returns  to  the  room. 

VEDAH.  Mrs.  Clayton,  may  I  present  Mr.  Julian  Bur- 
rill,,  the  sculptor. 

ELINOR.     Mr.  Burrill.     [She  gives  BURRILL  her  hand.] 

VEDAH.     Mrs.  Clayton  is  the  Mrs.  Clayton. 

ELINOR.     You  must  look  as  though  you  knew. 

BURRILL.     My  struggle  is  to  conceal    my  knowledge — 

ELINOR.  [To  VEDAH.]  All  that  you've  told  me  of  him 
seems  to  be  true. 

BURRILL.     So  quickly? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  17 

VEDAH.  One  or  two  lumps  ?  And  look  at  my  Greek  play 
mates. 

ELINOR.  [Seeing  the  statuettes.]  Charming.  [To 
VEDAH.]  Two  please.  [She  turns  to  the  dancing  nymph.] 
Think  of  wanting  to  vote  when  one  may  do  that. 

BURRILL.    Exactly. 

VEDAH.    And  cream  ? 

ELINOR.  Lemon  please.  [To  BURRILL.]  You're  a 
dangerous  man. 

BURRILL.     I? 

ELINOR.     With  that  degree  of  flattery. 

BURRILL.     That's  a  servile  portrait. 

ELINOR.     Really? 

VEDAH.     Show  Mrs.  Clayton  the  photograph. 

BURRILL.     [Passing  the  photo  to  ELINOR.]     Model. 

ELINOR.     I  know  this  woman. 

VEDAH.     Resembles  Duse. 

ELINOR.    In  Paris. 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

ELINOR.     She  writes  for  the  papers. 

BURRILL.     I  hardly  think  writes  for  the  papers. 

ELINOR.  French  papers — yes.  And  she  represents  Mr. 
Clayton's  publications. 

BURRILL.     I  shouldn't  have  thought  it. 

VEDAH.     You've  met  her? 

ELINOR.  A  moment — yes — in  this  same  hat  and  gown. 
[She  hands  the  photograph  to  VEDAH.]  Mr.  Clayton  said 
she  spoke  no  English  though  she  understood  it  fairly. 
Frank  introduced  her  as  a  writer — she  smiled  assent — 

BURRILL.      [Reclaiming  the  photograph.]     Possible. 

HOLLAND.  [Entering  and  announcing.]  Mr.  De  Lota. 
[BENJAMIN  DE  LOTA  enters.  He  is  a  tall — aggressive 

and  intellectual  Spanish  Jew  of  thirty-five  years  or  so. 

[HOLLAND  goes  out. 


18  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

VEDAH.     Good  afternoon. 

DE  LOTA.  [Taking  her  hand  with  much  manner.'] 
Vedah. 

VEDAH.     Mrs.  Clayton  you  know? 

DE  LOTA.     Yes — how  are  you.        [ELINOR  nods  to  him. 

VEDAH.    And  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Burrill. 

DE  LOTA.     Mr.  Burrill. 

[The  men  shake  hands. 

BURRILL.  [Seriously.']  I've  an  impression  of  having 
met  you  in  Paris. 

DE  LOTA.     I'm  often  there. 

VEDAH.    Some  tea? 

DE  LOTA.  Not  any,  thank  you.  [To  ELINOR.]  I 
thought  Frank  was  to  be  here? 

ELINOR.    He  is. 

DE  LOTA.  Good.  [To  BURRILL.]  Doctor  Seelig  has 
told  Frank — Mrs.  Clayton's  husband — about  your  row  with 
the  architects. 

BURRILL.     I  hardly  call  it  a  row. 

DE  LOTA.  Better  call  it  a  row  and  make  it  a  row  or 
you'll  never  get  a  chance  at  the  big  sculpture.  Once  let  a 
ring  do  all  the  work  and  you  young  fellows  can  starve  or  be 
journeymen.  Thank  God,  Clayton's  a  Westerner,  believes 
in  the  open  shop. 

BURRILL.    We  want  his  influence,  but  not  to  involve  him. 

DE  LOTA.  Magazines  must  print  something.  [He  goes 
to  ELINOR.]  Frank  will  clasp  him  and  his  row  to  our 
bosom  with  hooks  of  steel,  won't  he? 

ELINOR.     How  do  you  spell  steel? 

DE  LOTA.  I  follow  the  market.  [To  VEDAH.]  Where's 
Papa? 

VEDAH.  Finding  the  post  of  honor  in  his  library  for 
your  vases. 

DE  LOTA.     [Noting  the  pedestals.]     Oh — yours? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  19 

BURRILL.    Yes. 

DE  LOTA.     [Regarding  the  dancing  girl.']     Charming. 

ELINOR.     Does  she  impress  you  as  a  co-worker? 

DE   LOTA.     Co-worker — no — co — respondent — yes. 

ELINOR.     I  mean  as  a  fellow  member  of  the  profession? 

DE  LOTA.     Which  profession? 

ELINOR.    Journalism. 

DE  LOTA.  By  nothing  except  the  willingness  to  increase 
her  circulation. 

VEDAH.  Mrs.  Clayton  says  the  lady  represents  your 
magazine  in  Paris. 

DE  LOTA.     I  dare  say  I'm  dull — but — ? 

BURRILL.  Not  the  statuette — the  model — Mimi  Char- 
denet. 

DE  LOTA.     Mimi  Chardenet — Europa? 

BURRILL.    Yes. 

DE  LOTA.  Was  Mimi  your  model?  [BURRILL  nods.] 
I  might  have  known  it.  [He  turns  admiringly  to  the 
bronze.] 

ELINOR.    Why  do  you  say  "  Europa?  " 

DE  LOTA.  Mimi  was  "  Europa "  at  the  Quat'z  Arts 
ball  this  year. 

ELINOR.     Europa — mythological,  isn't  it? 

DE  LOTA.  Yes. 

VEDAH.  [As  ELINOR  looks  to  her.]  I  remember  some 
thing  of  Europa  in  our  literature  class — must  be  all 
right. 

DE  LOTA.     Disappointingly  proper. 

ELINOR.     But  the  lady  at  the  ball? 

DE  LOTA.     Costume — well,  somewhat  less  than  this. 

ELINOR.     Less? 

DE  LOTA.  [Nodding.]  Without  the  pipes — mounted 
on  a  sleek  black  bull  which  the  students  led  about  the 
ball  room. 


20  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

ELINOR.     Show  Mr.  De  Lota  the  photograph. 

DE  LOTA.     [Taking  photo  from  BURRILL.]     That's  Mimi. 

ELINOR.     Let  me  have  it  again. 

[DE  LOTA  gives  ELINOR  the  photograph. 
BURRILL.    Can  she  possibly  have  also  written? 
DE  LOTA.    Mimi  a  blue  stocking?    I  leave  it  to  you. 
ELINOR.     Frank  knows  this  woman. 
DE  LOTA.    Your  husband? 
ELINOR.    Yes. 

DE  LOTA.     Of  course.     I  introduced  him. 
ELINOR.    I  was  sure  of  it. 

[DE  LOTA  is  startled  by  ELINOR'S  seriousness. 
SEELIG.     [Calling  from  the  library.}     Vedah. 
VEDAH.     Yes,  Papa. 

SEELIG.     You  and  Mr,  Burrill  come  here  a  moment. 
VEDAH.      [To  BURRILL.]      He  wants  us — [To  others.] 
He  doesn't  know  you  are  here. 

DE  LOTA.     Don't  disturb  him  on  my  account. 
VEDAH.    Your  vases  anyway — I  expect — 
BURRILL.     [Excusing  his  going.]     Pardon. 

[ELINOR  nods.     VEDAH  and  BURRILL  go  to 

the  library. 

DE  LOTA.     [Alone  with  ELINOR.]     Well? 
ELINOR.     Well? 

DE  LOTA.    We  do  meet,  don't  we? 
ELINOR.    Vedah  didn't  tell  me  you  were  to  be  here. 
DE  LOTA.    The  Doctor  invited  me. 
ELINOR.     Meetings  of  this  kind — I  can't  help. 
DE  LOTA.    But  you  won't  ask  me  to  your  home. 
ELINOR.     Frank  asks  you. 
DE  LOTA.    I'll  come  when  you  ask  me. 
ELINOR.     I  shan't  ask  you. 
DE  LOTA.     Why? 
ELINOR.     [Pause.]     You  know  why. 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  21 

DE  LOTA.     I  don't. 

ELINOR.  [Going  to  the  statuette.]  This  model — you  say 
you  introduced  Frank  to  her? 

DE  LOTA.     Yes. 

ELINOR.    When? 

DE  LOTA.     This  year. 

ELINOR.    Where? 

DE  LOTA.  Paris — Quat'z  Arts  ball.  It  was  her  pose  as 
Europa  that  caught — Frank's — caught  his  eye. 

ELINOR.  I  remember  the  newspaper  comment  the  day 
after.  On  that  particular  night — Frank  went  to  a  meeting 
of  the  American  Chamber  of  Commerce. 

DE  LOTA.  So  did  I.  At  those  student  dances  the  in 
teresting  things  don't  begin  until  midnight. 

ELINOR.     I  see. 

DE  LOTA.  [Insistently.]  But  you're  changing  the  sub 
ject.  Frank  and  I  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other  at  the 
office.  He  begins  to  think  it  strange  I  don't  accept  his 
invitations  to  the  house. 

ELINOR.     Why  haven't  you? 

DE  LOTA.  He  said  he  wanted  me  to  call,  to  know  you 
better — [Smiles.]  I  saw  you'd  told  him  nothing — so — 
I  await  your  invitation. 

ELINOR.  You  were  away  when  Frank  and  I  first  met. 
[DE  LOTA  nods.]  Away  when  we  married — [DE  LOTA 
nods.]  I  suppose  all  husbands  ask  their  wives  if  they've 
ever  cared  for  anyone  else — [She  leaves  the  fireplace  and 
goes  to  the  window.] 

DE  LOTA.     [Pause.]     And  you  said — ? 

ELINOR.  I  said  no.  Smile  if  you  wish  but — I  hadn't 
loved  anyone  as  I  loved  him. 

DE  LOTA.     [Following.]     Naturally. 

ELINOR.     So  what  I  said  was  true. 

DE  LOTA.     By  the  feminine  standard — yes. 


:22  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

ELINOR.  That's  one  of  the  things  I  always  disliked  in 
you,  Ben. 

DE  LOTA.     What?       • 

ELINOR.  Your  talk  of  feminine  standards  and  masculine 
standards.  In  morals  there  is  just  one  standard. 

DE  LOTA.  [Laughing.']  Were  there  many  other  things 
you  disliked  in  me? 

ELINOR.     This  is  one  other. 

DE  LOTA.    WThat? 

ELINOR.     Your  mood  of  cat-like  cruelty. 

DE  LOTA.     Cruelty — cat-like? 

ELINOR.  Yes — cruelty — and  it  goes  with  your  smile. 
"That  is  like  a  cat's — your  manner  is  like  a  cat's.  When 
you  play  the  piano  it  is  a  cat  walking  on  the  keys. 

DE  LOTA.  There  were  times,  however,  when  you  asked 
me  to  play. 

ELINOR.    There  are  times  when  I  like  cats. 

DE  LOTA.     Elinor — [He  starts  impulsively  toward  her.'] 

ELINOR.  [Avoiding  him.]  NO 
DE  LOTA.  [Regarding  her  with  admiration.]  Damn 
it — we'd  have  been  happy  together — you  and  I. 

ELINOR.    No. 

DE  LOTA.     The  history  of  my  people  supports  me. 

ELINOR.     Spanish  history? 

DE  LOTA.  Jewish  history.  Our  girls  have  often  been 
unhappy  when  they've  married  outside.  But  our  men — 
have  absorbed  the  women  of  other  races. 

ELINOR.  You  mustn't  talk  to  me  in  that  strain.  [She 
•walks  angrily  away.'] 

DE  LOTA.  A  man  in  sentimental  bankruptcy  may  at  least 
enumerate  his  assets.  We  would  have  been  happy. 

ELINOR.     No. 

DE  LOTA.  One  of  us  would  have  been  happy,  of 
that — I'm  sure.  I  loved  you,  Elinor,  because  you  were 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  23 

a  queen — me  you  sacrificed  because — [Pause.]  I  was  as 
Jew. 

ELINOR.    And  because  you  are  a  Jew  you  still  speak  of  it. 

DE  LOTA.    Exactly. 

ELINOR.    But  you  must  cease  to  speak  of  it. 

DE  LOTA.     Not  while  you  listen. 

ELINOR.  [Starting  toward  the  door.}  I  will  never  be 
alone  with  you  again. 

DE  LOTA.     [Interposing.}  Then  I  must  tell  you  now. 

ELINOR.     [Commandingly.]     Play  something  or  I  shall 

leave. 

DE  LOTA.  Thank  you — I  prefer  this  way  myself.  [He 
laughs  and  goes  to  the  piano  which  he  plays  brilliantly  and 
with  passion.] 

[SEELIG,  VEDAH  and  BURRILL  re-enter  in  turn  and  join 

ELINOR. 

[Enter  HOLLAND  who-  whispers  to  SEELIG.    SEELIG 
goes  out  with  HOLLAND  and  returns  with 

CLAYTON  as  piano  ceases. 

VEDAH.  [Meeting  CLAYTON  and  shaking  his  hand.]  We 
feared  you  were  forgetting  us. 

CLAYTON.     Never — [He  nods  to  his  wife.]  my  dear. 

VEDAH.    Mr.  Clayton,  may  I  present  Mr.  Julian  BurrilL 

CLAYTON.     [To  BURRILL.]     I  thought  you  an  older  man. 

VEDAH.     He  is.     [BURRILL  laughs.] 

CLAYTON.     In  the  Salon  six  years  ago,  weren't  you? 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

CLAYTON.     Medal,  if  I  remember? 

[BURRILL  nods.     CLAYTON   turns  to   SEELIG 

with  a  shrug. 

SEELIG.  No  justice  at  all  in  the  discrimination  of  these 
architects. 

ELINOR.  [Calmly.]  That  is  Mr.  Burrill's  latest  work.. 
[She  indicates  the  dancing  fgurine.] 


24  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

CLAYTON.    Charming. 

ELINOR.     Do  you  recognize  the  lady? 

CLAYTON.     [Playfully.]     I'd  like  to. 

ELINOR.     Mimi  Chardenet. 

CLAYTON.     Chardenet? 

ELINOR.  You  must  remember — rode  the  black  bull  at 
the  Quat'z  Arts  ball. 

[A  swift  glance  passes  between  DE  LOTA  and 
CLAYTON. 

CLAYTON.  Ah,  indeed.  [To  BURRILL.]  From  that  cele 
brated  model.  [BURRILL  nods. 

ELINOR.  [To  BURRILL.]  Let  Mr.  Clayton  see  the  photo 
graph. 

BURRILL.     I  can't  think  it  would  interest  him. 

[CLAYTON  tries  to  engage  SEELIG  in  conversa 
tion. 

ELINOR.  Oh,  yes.  [To  CLAYTON.]  Frank!  [CLAYTON 
turns  to  her.]  Look  at  this  photograph — please.  [To 
BURRILL.] 

BURRILL.  [Reluctantly  yielding  the  photograph.]  Miss 
Seelig  had  some  curiosity  about  it. 

CLAYTON.     Oh,  yes. 

ELINOR.  Mr.  Burrill  was  inclined  to  doubt  that  the  lady 
represented  your  magazines. 

CLAYTON.  [Evasively.]  Oh,  that  arrangement  was 
never  completed — discussed  but — [He  returns  the  photo 
graph  to  BURRILL.] 

DE  LOTA.  [Trying  to  help  the  strained  situation.]  Mimi 
had  more  than  one  side  to  her. 

ELINOR.     [Regarding  the  bronze.]     So  it  appears. 

DE  LOTA.  I  mean  she  could  think.  Antoine  told  me  that 
she  caught  the  meaning  of  a  line — as  quickly  as  any  woman 
that  ever  came  into  his  theater. 

VEDAH.     [Starting  at  the  name.]     Antoine? 


Act  I]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  25 

DE  LOTA.  Yes,  Antoine  the  manager.  I  got  her  a  place 
in  his  company. 

VEDAH.     When  was  that? 

DE  LOTA.  Oh,  nine  or  ten  years  ago  before  she  posed 
professionally. 

[VEDAH   looks   to  BURRILL   who  avoids  her 
inquiry. 

CLAYTON.     She  said  she  would  write  of  the  theater. 

ELINOR.    Well — I  must  go. 

VEDAH.  Really?  Am  I  to  be  the  only  woman  in  this 
council  of  war? 

ELINOR.     Leave  it  all  to  the  men,  my  dear. 

CLAYTON.     The  car's  at  the  door — take  it  if  you  wish. 

ELINOR.  [Frigidly.]  I'll  walk,  thank  you.  [Pause.] 
Mr.  Burrill,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you. 

BURRILL.     Thank  you. 

ELINOR.  And  your  model — well — a  delightful  reminder 
of  Paris,  Mr.  De  Lota.  [DE  LOTA  turns  to  her.]  As  you 
also  know  the  lady,  Mr.  De  Lota — you  shall  tell  me  more 
of  her.  I  hope  you'll  call  on  us.  [She  gives  DE  LOTA  her 
hand.] 

DE  LOTA.     I've  been  promising  Mr.  Clayton  to  do  so. 

ELINOR.  You  must — [Going  with  VEDAH  to  the  hall] — 
You'll  bring  Mr.  Burrill  to  see  me  too  ? 

VEDAH.     Delighted,  Mrs.  Clayton. 

[VEDAH  and  ELINOR  go  out. 

DE  LOTA.  I  put  my  foot  in  it — but — hang  it,  I  was  com 
pletely  off  guard.  Mrs.  Clayton  said  "  Why  Frank  knows 
this  woman  "  and  I  blurted  "  of  course — I  introduced  him." 
[Turns  to  BURRILL  for  confirmation.] 

CLAYTON.     Forget  it. 

SEELIG.    Trouble? 

CLAYTON.  En  promenade  with  the  girl — Elinor  met  us. 
I  said  business. 


26  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  I 

SEELIG.  [Seriously.]  'Mmm.  Too  bad  after — the — 
the  other  trouble  so  soon. 

CLAYTON.  Damn  it — a  man  can't  go  to  Paris  and  live 
on  bread  and  milk.  I've  got  to  know  the  world  I  live  in. 
I  publish  three  magazines  and  a  metropolitan  newspaper. 

SEELIG.     The  wife  met  you  walking  with  the  woman? 

CLAYTON.  That's  all — [To  DE  LOTA  with  some  anxiety.] 
You  told  her  nothing  more? 

DE  LOTA.      [Expostulating.]     My  dear  Frank — 

CLAYTON.     [Relieved.]     Oh,  I  can  fix  it. 
[VEDAH  enters. 

SEELIG.  Well — shall  we  discuss  this  business  of  the 
architects? 

CLAYTON.     Yes. 

SEELIG.  Suppose  we  go  into  the  library — I've  your 
papers  there,  Mr.  Burrill. 

CLAYTON.     Yes.  [The  men  start  to  the  library. 

VEDAH.     Mr.  Burrill!     I'll  send  Mr.  Burrill  immediately. 

BURRILL.     [To  SEELIG.]     You  permit  me? 

[SEELIG  pauses,  regards  VEDAH  intently. 
[DE  LOTA,  CLAYTON  and  SEELIG  go  out. 

VEDAH.  [In  sudden  alarm.]  He  is  the  man — I  saw  your 
face  when  he  said  he  had  introduced  this  girl  to  Antoine. 

BURRILL.  Antoine's  name  startled  me — that  was  all — 
,and — 

VEDAH.     You  thought  you'd  seen  him  in  Paris. 

BURRILL.     Probably  did — many  times. 

VEDAH.  You  think  you  saw  him  in  that  court  room — 
on  trial  for  a  crime. 

BURRILL.     [Evasively.]     No — no. 

VEDAH.  The  man  on  trial  had  spoken  to  Antoine  for  the 
girl. 

BURRILL.  A  dozen  men  may  have  done  that.  Engage 
ments  in  the  theater  require  many  introductions. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  27 

VEDAH.  I  read  the  doubt  in  your  heart.  You're  not  the 
conventional  coward  that  most  men  are — tell  me.  I  am 
promised  to  marry  Benjamin  De  Lota — doesn't  that  mean- 
any  thing  to  you? 

BURRILL.  Mean  anything! — [He  starts  impulsively 
toward  VEDAH,  stops  and  after  a  moment's  effort  at  self- 
control  says  calmly  and  tenderly.]  I  love  you!  [VEDAH 
inhales  quickly,  her  glance  falls  before  BURRILL'S  look,  she 
turns  irresolutely  toward  the  room  into  which  DE  LOTA  has 
gone — a  pause. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II 

[SCENE:  Lounging  room  of  MR.  FRANK  CLAYTON'S  house. 
The  walls  are  covered  with  green  canvas  on  which  is 
a  profusion  of  illustrations  furnished  to  CLAYTON'S 
-magazines  by  various  artists.  The  room,  square  and 
shallow  and  low,  is  furnished  in  mahogany  and  leather. 
Two  five-foot  "  arches  "  on  either  side  of  center  open 
to  rooms  back.  That  at  right  shows  hallway  in  red, 
with  staircase  leading  to  second  story.  That  at  left 
shows  music  room  in  yellow  with  Chippendale  furniture 
and  pictures  in  gilt  frames.  A  sofa  above  -fireplace 
which  is  at  right,  stands  at  right  angle  to  fireplace. 
A  low  table  for  tobacco  is  at  end  of  this  sofa.  On  this 
table  is  a  big  reading  lamp.  A  large  writing  table  is  at 
back.  A  smaller  table  near  the  window  at  left  side 
has  a  desk  telephone. 

At  Rise  of  Curtain  the  stage  is  empty.  MRS.  SEELIG 
and  VEDAH  and  ELINOR  enter  from  the  dining  room 
by  a  door  above  the  fireplace.  They  are  in  evening- 
gowns. 


28  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Vedah. 

VEDAH.    Mama? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [To  ELINOR.]  Mr.  Clayton's  found  my 
gloves,  but  my  handkerchief  is  gone. 

ELINOR.     [Starting  back  to  dining  room.]     I'll  get  it. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Let  Vedah. 

ELINOR.     No  trouble.  [She  goes  out. 

VEDAH.     See  this  picture,  Mama. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Which? 

VEDAH.     This. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     What  is  it? 

VEDAH.     At  Jerusalem.     "  The  Wailing  Wall." 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Poor  fellows.  It's  dreadful  to  take  re 
ligion  so  seriously. 

[ELINOR  enter*. 

ELINOR.  Mr.  De  Lota  is  bringing  your  handkerchief — 
wouldn't  let  me  have  it. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     An  excuse  to  join  us. 

[DE  LOTA  enters  from  the  dining  room  waving  a  lace 
handkerchief  playfully. 

DE  LOTA.     Found!     Lady's  handkerchief — no  marks. 

MRS.  SEELIG.      [Extending  her  hand.]     Thank  you. 

DE  LOTA.  [Withholding  the  handkerchief.]  On  one 
consideration.  [To  ELINOR.]  Mrs.  Seelig  says  the  talking 
machine  has  spoiled — Celeste  Ai'da — for  her  ears — [To 
MRS.  SEELIG.]  If  you  think  you  are  mistaken  when  you 
hear  Caruso  to-night — you  must  stand  up  and  wave  this 
to  me  as  a  signal  of  surrender. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  I  agree — [Takes  handkerchief.]  because 
we  shall  be  too  late  to  hear  that  solo. 

DE  LOTA.     Sharp  practice,  madam. 

ELINOR.    Are  we  so  late! 

VEDAH.     Oh — let's  not  hurry. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  29 

DE  LOTA.     This  room  attracts  me  more  than  the  opera. 
[He  regards  the  drawings  on  the  wall.] 

MRS.  SEEHG.     Originals,  aren't  they? 

ELINOR.  Yes.  They  were  in  the  offices  of  the  magazine 
when  Mr.  Clayton  bought  it. 

DE  LOTA.  Here's  one  by  Frost.  I  used  to  watch  for 
his  sketches  when  I  was  a  boy. 

[SUTTON,  the  Clayton  butler,  enters  with  coffee. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [At  another  drawing.]  And  Remington 
—  [To  the  butler.]  Thank  you—  [Takes  coffee.] 

[CLAYTON  and  BURRILL  come  from  the  dining  room. 

CLAYTON.     You  found  the  cigars? 

DE  LOTA.     I'll  take  a  cigarette.     [He  does  so.] 

ELINOR.  [To  BURRILL.]  Here's  a  libretto  of  Aida. 
Find  that  passage  of  which  you  spoke. 

BURRILL.    There  were  several. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Our  coffee  won't  interfere  with  your  cigars. 

DE  LOTA.     Do  you  mind? 

ELINOR.  This  room  is  dedicated  to  nicotine.  [To  MRS. 
SEELIG.]  Besides,  we're  going  to  take  Mr.  De  Lota  to  the 
piano. 

DE  LOTA.    Are  you? 

ELINOR.     [To  VEDAH.]     Aren't  we? 

VEDAH.     We  are. 

BURRILL.     Here's  one  place — [His  pencil  breaks.]     Ah! 

CLAYTON.  [Offering  a  pencil  attached  to  his  watch  chain. 
Here. 

BURRILL.  [Giving  libretto  to  CLAYTON.]  Just  mark 
that  passage — "  my  native  land,"  etc.  [To  ELINOR.]  Now 
follow  that  when  Aida  sings  Italian  and  note  how  the 
English  stumbles. 

ELINOR.  Thank  you.  [To  CLAYTON  as  she  takes  book.] 
Will  you  order  the  car? 

CLAYTON.     I  have  done  so. 


SO  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

ELINOR.     [To  DE  LOTA.]     Come. 

[ELINOR,  MRS.  SEELIG,  VEDAH  and  DE  LOTA 
go  to  the  music  room  by  the  arch  left. 

BURRILL.  [To  CLAYTON  with  whom  he  is  alone.]  See 
here — I've  an  idea  you'd  go  to  the  opera  if  it  weren't  for  me. 

CLAYTON.  My  boy,  a  box  at  the  opera  is  the  blackmail 
— a  man  pays  for  a  quiet  evening  at  home. 

BURRILL.      [Laughing.']      Many  men  do  go. 

CLAYTON.  And  sleep  on  the  rear  chairs.  No !  I  planned 
to  stay  home — you're  part  of  the  excuse.  [SUTTON  enters 
with  a  note.]  Excuse  me.  [Pause.  Reads  superscription 
on  the  note.]  Vedah — [BURRILL  gets  a  cigarette.  CLAYTON 
goes  to  the  door  of  the  music  room  and  calls.]  Vedah. 
[VEDAH  comes  to  him.]  They  pursue  you  even  here.  [He 
laughingly  gives  VEDAH  the  note  which  she  opens  and 
quickly  scans.  SUTTON  goes.] 

VEDAH.  [Speaking  to  the  ladies  and  DE  LOTA  who  are 
not  in  view.]  Papa  will  be  late.  Mrs.  Clayton  mustn't  wait 
for  us. 

CLAYTON.     Our  car  carries  seven. 
[ELINOR  and  MRS.  SEELIG  appear  in  the  doorway — 
DE  LOTA  follows,  they  enter. 

ELINOR.     I'm  sure  we  can  make  room. 

CLAYTON.    Make  room !     You're  only  four ! 

ELINOR.  Mr.  De  Lota  and  I  are  to  stop  for  the  Under 
woods. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     And  we  have  our  cousins  Friedman. 

DE  LOTA.     /  can  take  a  taxi. 

VEDAH.  That  won't  help — Papa  is  coming  here — but 
later. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     You  go  ahead,  Mrs.  Clayton. 

VEDAH.     Yes. 

ELINOR.     [To  DE  LOTA.]     What  do  you  think? 

DE  LOTA.     Any  time  for  me — but — the  Underwoods — ! 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  31 

[SUTTON  enters. 

SUTTON.     The  automobile. 

[ELINOR  nods;  SUTTON  goes. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  It's  all  settled — you  go.  So  much  for 
mality.  [She  and  CLAYTON  go  to  music  room.] 

ELINOR.  Take  this  for  me.  [Hands  libretto  to  DE 
LOTA.] 

VEDAH.  [Going  out  with  ELINOR.]  Papa  will  probably 
be  here  before  you  get  away. 

[ELINOR  goes  upstairs  talking  with  VEDAH. 
They  disappear. 

BURRILL.  [As  DE  LOTA  starts  to  music  room.]  Mr. 
De  Lota — were  you  in  Paris  eight  years  ago? 

DE  LOTA.  [Returning.]  Yes — and  twenty-eight  years 
ago — I'm  there  every  year. 

BURRILL.     Did  you  ever — visit  the  Cour  d'Assizes? 

DE  LOTA.  Occasionally — if  some  interesting  case  were 
on — 

BURRILL.  I  remember  one  very  interesting  case — A  hus 
band  punished  his  wife — and  also  her  lover — by  imprison 
ment. 

DE  LOTA.     The  French  law  has  that  absurd  possibility. 

BURRILL.  The  lover  was  sentenced  to  a  year's  imprison 
ment. 

DE  LOTA.  He  was  fortunate — the  court  in  its  discretion 
might  have  given  him  two  years. 

BURRILL.  You  are  more  minutely  informed  on  the  sub 
ject  than  the  average  American. 

DE  LOTA.  I  am  more  minutely  informed  on  most  sub 
jects  that  the  average  American.  I  know  somewhat  of 
character — of  men's  temperaments  and  motives,  Mr.  Bur- 
rill.  And  your  interest  in  my  life  at  Paris  is  very  service 
able  just  now. 

BURRILL.     Indeed! 


32  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

DE  LOTA.  Indeed  yes.  I've  been  at  a  loss  to  understand 
the  change  in  Miss  Seelig's  deportment  toward  myself.  I 
was  charging  it  to  your  superior  attraction.  I  see  it  was 
due  to  your  power  of  insinuation. 

BURRILL.     I  have  insinuated  nothing  about  you. 

DE  LOTA.     You  have  been  direct? 

BURRILL.     I've  avoided  discussing  your  life  in  Paris. 

DE  LOTA.  That  is  wise,  Mr.  Burrill.  In  fact,  you  could 
do  only  one  thing  that  would  be  more  wise. 

BURRILL.    Yes  ? 

DE  LOTA.     Avoid  discussing  any  of  my  affairs. 

BURRILL.     My  instinct  is  to  do  that. 

DE  LOTA.     Thank  you!     [He  turns  away.] 

BURRILL.     [Following.']     Except  with  one  person. 

DE  LOTA.     You  mean — the  lady? 

BURRILL.  I  mean  you.  I  expect  to  discuss  them  with 
you  rather  frankly. 

DE  LOTA.  I  shall  be  pleased.  [He  throws  the  libretto 
on  the  table  and  confronts  BURRILL.] 

ELINOR.     [Entering.']     Ready,  Mr.  De  Lota? 

DE  LOTA.     [Smiling.']     You  excuse  me?    [BURRILL  nods.] 
[DE  LOTA  disappears  in  the  hallway. 

ELINOR.     I  wish  you  were  going  with  us. 

BURRILL.     I  wish  I  were. 

[CLAYTON  re-enters  from  the  music  room. 

ELINOR.     You'll  see  Dick,  won't  you? 

CLAYTON.    Yes. 

ELINOR.  He's  not  started  to  undress  yet.  Miss  Doane 
never  knows  how  to  manage  him. 

[BURRILL  joins  VEDAH  and  disappears  with 
her  in  music  room. 

CLAYTON.  [Alone  with  ELINOR.]  Don't  worry.  Good 
night. 

ELINOR.    Good  night.  [CLAYTON  offers  to  kiss  her.]     No. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  S3 

CLAYTON.     Still  cross  patch? 

ELINOR.     We  can't  laugh  it  off,  Frank. 

CLAYTON.     Think  we  can  pout  it  off? 

ELINOR.  I  think  you  can't  tread  my  sensibilities  into  the 
mire  by  your  affairs  with  other  women  and  expect  me  to 
smile  at  cue. 

CLAYTON.  Women! — One  girl — and  a  man's  natural 
curiosity  about  her  type.  Hang  it — there  must  be  some 
freedom. 

ELINOR.    Do  you  suggest  more  than  you've  had? 

CLAYTON.  I  suggest  domestic  peace — or  any  other  pun 
ishment  than  this  deadly  sulking. 

ELINOR.  You've  admitted  you  went  to  the  woman's 
room. 

CLAYTON.  Admitted  nothing.  I  candidly  told  you  I  had 
gone  there — told  you  in  order  that  you  might  know  all. 

ELINOR.     All  that  you  were  willing  to  tell. 

CLAYTON.     I  can't  keep  pace  with  your  imagination. 

ELINOR.  Your  wish  to  have  me  "  know  all  "  is  six  months 
after  the  fact  and  when  her  photograph  accidentally  ex 
posed  you! 

CLAYTON.  If  you're  kicking  on  the  tardiness  of  your 
news  service,  I'm  with  you. 

ELINOR.     I'm  resenting  your  breach  of  faith. 

CLAYTON.  Don't  assume  any  covenant,  my  dear,  that 
doesn't  exist. 

ELINOR.  Do  you  deny  your  promises  after  the  affair  of 
two  years  ago? 

CLAYTON.  I  didn't  promise  to  stagnate.  I'm  a  publisher 
with  a  newsman's  curiosity  about  the  world  he  lives  in. 

ELINOR.     And  what  of  a  woman's  curiosity? 

CLAYTON.  Colossal!  But  not  privileged.  Curiosity  of 
that  kind  in  a  woman  is  idle  and  immoral! 

ELINOR.    And  in  a  man? 


34  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

CLAYTON.    A  man's  on  the  firing  line — a  woman's  in  the 
commissariat. 

ELINOR.     Which  is   a   fine   way   of  saying  you  have   a 
license  for  transgression  that  your  wife  has  not. 

CLAYTON.     If  you  will — yes. 

ELINOR.     [After  a  defiant  pause.~\     You're  mistaken. 
[DE  LOTA  enters  in  wrap  and  carrying  his  hat. 

DE  LOTA.    Ready? 

ELINOR.     Yes.     [To  CLAYTON.]     You'll  go  up  to  Dick 
occasionally  ? 

CLAYTON.     Certainly. 

ELINOR.     [Calls.]     Good  night,  Mr.  Burrill — good  night. 
[To  MRS.  SEELIG  and  VEDAH.]     I  feel  awfully  selfish. 
[MRS.  SEELIG,  VEDAH  and  BURRILL  come  from  music  room. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Good  night. 

VEDAH.     Lovely  time  at  dinner. 

[ELINOR  and  DE  LOTA  start  out. 

CLAYTON.      [Getting  the  libretto  from  table.']      Here — 
isn't  this  your  libretto? 

ELINOR.     Thank  you.     [Takes  zt  and  goes  out  with  DE 
LOTA.]      [Sound  of  front  door  closing.'] 

[MRS.  SEELIG,  VEDAH  and  BURRILL  are  with 
CLAYTON. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Now,,  if  Papa  doesn't  come  for  us — you 
have  us  both  on  your  hands. 

DICK.      [Coming  down  the  stairs  and  calling.]      Mama 
— Mama. 

CLAYTON.     Mama's  gone,  Dick.     Don't  let  him  call  that 
way,  Miss  Doane. 
[DicK  and  Miss  DOANE,  the  governess,  appear  in  hallway. 

DICK.     I  want  Mama. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Here's  Auntie  Seelig,  my  dear — won't  she 
do? 

[Miss  DOANE  and  DICK  enter. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  35 

CLAYTON.     It's  much  after  his  bed  time. 
Miss  DOANE.     I  don't  think  he's  well,  Mr.  Clayton. 
DICK.     My  throat  hurts. 
CLAYTON.     Throat  hurts? 

Miss  DOANE.  He  complained  at  supper.  I  didn't  tell 
Mrs.  Clayton  because  she's  so  easily  alarmed. 

CLAYTON.      [Taking  DICK   to   the   lamp.]      Let   me   see 
your   throat,   Dick.      Open   your   mouth.      [To   BURRILL.] 
You  know  anything  about  throats? 
BURRILL.     Not  inside. 
VEDAH.     Mama  does. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Papa  Seelig's  coming  in  a  few  minutes, 
Dick— he'll  cure  your  throat.  [To  CLAYTON  as  she  takes 
the  boy's  face  in  her  hands.]  Feverish. 

CLAYTON.  [To  Miss  DOANE.]  Let  him  wait  then  and 
see  the  Doctor. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Doctor  can  see  him  better  in  the  nursery. 
Come  Dick — Auntie  Seelig  will  tell  you  a  pretty  story  while 
Miss  Doane  gets  you  to  bed. 

DICK.     [To  CLAYTON.]     Carry  me. 

CLAYTON.  [Laughing.]  Carry  you?  You're  taking  ad 
vantage  of  all  this  sympathy.  [Picks  him  up.]  Excuse  me 
— [To  BURRILL  and  VEDAH.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.     What  is  a  father  for— with  his  magazines 

and  newspapers— if  he  can't  carry  a  little  boy  upstairs,  eh? 

[Goes  with  Miss  DOANE  after  CLAYTON  who 

carries  DICK  upstairs. 
VEDAH.     Looks  sick,  doesn't  he? 
BURRILL.     [Nodding.]     Poor  kid. 

VEDAH.     He  wants  his  mother.     If  Papa  says  he's  ill  I 
can  go  to  Mrs.  Clayton's  box  and  let  her  know. 
BURRILL.    Yes. 

VEDAH.  Have  you  noticed  the  disposition  of  our  two 
parties  ? 


36  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

BURRILL.     Disposition? 

VEDAH.     Mr.  De  Lota  escorts  Mrs.  Clayton. 

BURRILL.    Mr.  Clayton  doesn't  care  for  the  opera. 

VEDAH.     Some  of  my  friends  have  been  good  enough  to 
comment  on  the  frequency  of  Mr.  De  Lota's  calls. 

BURRILL.     [Pause.]     Do  you  care? 

VEDAH.     A  woman's  natural — pride. 

BURRILL.      But — heartaches?       [VEDAH    shakes    head.] 
Does  Mrs.  Clayton  know  of  your  engagement  ? 

VEDAH.     No.      [Pause.]     Have  you  done  what  I  asked 
you? 

BURRILL.    What? 

VEDAH.     A  letter  to  Paris. 

BURRILL.    There's  none  to  whom  I  could  write — on  such 
a  subject. 

VEDAH.    Your  model  friend — she  is  still  there? 

BURRILL.     I  suppose  so. 

VEDAH.     Why  not  a  line  to  her? 

BURRILL.     [Evasively.]     She  owes  me  nothing. 

VEDAH.    Well—? 

BURRILL.     She'd  probably  take  alarm  and  forward  the 
letter  to  the  man  himself. 

VEDAH.    Why  "  forward  " — has  he  left  the  country  ? 

BURRILL.     [Quickly  recovering.]     Probably — or  perhaps 
not — but — either  way— nothing  accomplished. 

VEDAH.     Either  way  nothing  lost.     Won't  you  try? 

BURRILL.     [Disturbed.]     It  isn't  a  manly  thing  to  do — 
even  against  a  rival. 

VEDAH.     [Smiling.]     Thank  you. 

BURRILL.     Why  ? 

VEDAH.     Rival. 

BURRILL.     Well? 

VEDAH.     So  far  you've  said  only  that  you  loved  me. 

BURRILL.     You  don't  rese-nt — rival? 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  37 

VEDAH.     Does  any  woman  ? 

BURRILL.     [With  quick  look  about.]     You  know,  if  there 
weren't  so  many  doors  here — [Approaches  her.] 

VEDAH.     [Retreating.]     No — 

[CLAYTON  re-appears  on  stairs* 

BURRILL.      [Changing  the  subject.]      And  all  originals. 
[Indicates  the  framed  sketches.] 

VEDAH.    So  wonderful  to  have  them,  isn't  it  ? 
[Enter  CLAYTON. 

CLAYTON.    Boy's  certainly  not  himself. 

VEDAH.     Poor  child. 

[SUTTON  enters. 

SUTTON.     [Announcing.]     Dr.  Seelig. 
[Enter  SEELIG.    He  is  in  evening  dress  and  wears  a  cloak. 

SEELIG.      Good    evening    Frank.        [Shakes    hands    with 
CLAYTON.]     Mr.  Burrill. 

BURRILL.    Doctor. 

SEELIG.       [To    VEDAH.]      Sorry    to    be    late.      Where's 
Mama  ? 

CLAYTON.     With  Dick — complains  of  his  throat.     Have 
you  time  to  look  at  him? 

VEDAH.     Certainly. 

SEELIG.     What  is  more  important?     Go  up? 

CLAYTON.      [Nodding.]      The  nursery.      [SUTTON  'takes 
SEELIG'S  cloak  and  hat.] 

SEELIG.     Get  ready,  my  dear.      [Goes  into  hall  and  up 
stairs  with  CLAYTON.] 

VEDAH.     [Resuming  the  interrupted  talk  with  BURRILL.  J 
But  write  to  that  girl. 

BURRILL.     [Smiling.]     I  did  say  I  loved  you. 

VEDAH.     A  month  ago. 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

VEDAH.     And  now? 

BURRILL.     There  isn't  any  stronger  word  or  I'd  use  it. 


.38  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

VEDAH.  [Seriously.']  It  isn't  a  thing  a  man  says  to  a 
girl — betrothed  to  another  man — is  it? 

BURRILL.     Not  generally. 

VEDAH.  That  is  another  proof  that  you  recognize  Mr. 
De  Lota  as  that  man  of  the  court  room.  You  must — 
do  something. 

BURRILL.     [Easily. ]     Does  it  really  matter? 

VEDAH.  Matter?  Why — we're  engaged — aren't  we — he 
and  I? 

BURRILL.     I've  said  I  love  you. 

VEDAH.     Yes. 

BURRILL.  And  you've  listened  to  it — because — you 
love  me. 

VEDAH.     [Pause.]     Well? 

BURRILL.  [Shaking  head.]  Not  Mr.  De  Lota.  I  shall 
marry  you — so  what  difference  does  it  make  what  he  did 
in  Paris? 

VEDAH.  I  know  my  father.  Mr.  De  Lota  is  of  our 
faith,  there  would  have  to  be  good  reason  for  breaking  with 
him  now. 

[CLAYTON   comes   downstairs  with   MRS.   SEELIG. 

BURRILL.  Breaking  the  engagement — would  mean  no 
distress  to  you? 

VEDAH.  [In  half  coquetry.]  Why  have  I  listened  to 
you  ? 

[Enter  MRS.  SEELIG  and  CLAYTON. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [Getting  her  wrap.]     Not  ready? 

VEDAH.     Where's  Papa? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  We  are  to  send  the  car  back  to  him. 
He  wants  to  wait  a  while  with  Dick. 

VEDAH.     Excuse  me.     [Goes  to  hall.] 

CLAYTON.     [To  MRS.  SEELIG.]     Can  I  help  you? 

MRS.  SEELIG.     It's  very  easy,  this  cloak. 

[CLAYTON  assists  VEDAH  with  her  wrap. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  39 

BURRILL.    Allow  me.     [Holds  cloak  for  MRS.  SEELIG.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [To  CLAYTON  as  she  goes.']  I  won't  say 
anything  to  Elinor  until  Doctor  comes. 

VEDAH.  Good  night.  [Gives  hand  to  BURRILL  and  goes 
out  with  MRS.  SEELIG.] 

[CLAYTON   and  BURRILL  come  down  to  the  fire 
place. 

CLAYTON.    Wonderful  man  with  children,  this  Seelig. 

BURRILL.     I  thought  principally  surgical  cases? 

CLAYTON.  He's  at  the  head  of  the  hospital  for  crippled 
children  but  great  in  diagnosis — medicine — anything. 

BURRILL.     Heidelberg,  Miss  Vedah  tells  me. 

CLAYTON.  [Getting  a  cigar.']  Postgraduate  yes — but 
New  York  family.  Father  left  him  ten  millions. 

BURRILL.     Might  have  struggled  through  with  that. 

CLAYTON.  His  heart  makes  him  a  doctor.  If  ever  I  go 
to  Heaven  and  that  old  Jew  isn't  there  I'll  ask  for  a  rain 
check. 

BURRILL.  [Lights  cigarette.']  I  understand  they  receive 
Jews. 

CLAYTON.  Heaven?  {BURRILL  nods.]  Yes — very  care 
lessly  managed.  Sit  down.  Judge  Hoover  will  be  here 
presently — he  tells  me  you're  acquainted.  [He  sits  as 
BURRILL  takes  a  chair.] 

BURRILL.      [Nodding.]     We  meet  at  the  Club. 

CLAYTON.     Mrs.  Clayton's  father. 

BURRILL.     I  know. 

CLAYTON.  I'd  have  had  Judge  to  dinner  but —  [Pause.] 
How  long  you  been  in  the  Club? 

BURRILL.     Two  years  only. 

CLAYTON.     Perhaps  you  know? 
BURRILL.     What? 

CLAYTON.  The  way  Hoover's  resisted  the  admission  of 
Jews?  He  hates  'em. 


40  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

BURRILL.       No. 

CLAYTON.     Blackballed  Seelig.     What  rot,  eh? 

BURRILL.     Foolish  antipathy. 

CLAYTON.  I  love  'em — not  the  cheap  ones.  I  hate  cheap 
Yankees  and  cheap  cattle  of  all  kinds — but  a  classy  Jew 
ivith  education  and  culture — 

BURRILL.     I  agree  with  you. 

CLAYTON.  While  we  think  in  vulgar  integers — they 
think  in  compound  fractions. 

BURRILL.    True. 

CLAYTON.  Damn  it — [Looks  about  in  playful  caution.] 
I'm  so  wrong  that  I  like  their  noses. 

BURRILL.      [Laughing.]     Not  all  of  them. 

CLAYTON.  Yes,  all  of  them.  Dismiss  your  prejudice 
for  a  while.  See  how  insignificant  our  average  Scandinavian 
and  North  Europe  noses  become.  [BURRILL  nods.]  But — 
don't  tell  father-in-law  Hoover  you  like  'em. 

BURRILL.  [Laughs.]  I  won't.  [Seeing  SEELIG  who  re 
appears  on  the  stairs.]  The  Doctor. 

[CLAYTON    and    BURRILL    rise.      SEELIG    enters. 

SEELIG.     Don't  disturb  yourselves,  gentlemen. 

CLAYTON.     How  do  you  find  him? 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  I'll  look  at  him  again  when  he's 
quiet.  I  hope  some  of  the  trouble  may  be  only  excitement. 

CLAYTON.     Cigar? 

SEELIG.      [Shakes  head.]      Thank  you. 

CLAYTON.  [Standing  by  the  fire.]  His  mother  tells  me  a 
singular  thing.  She  was  holding  Dick's  hand  as  he  napped 
on  her  bed  this  afternoon — babies  him  a  good  deal.  She 
was  reading — to  herself — an  old  book  of  Stockton's — some 
treasure  trove — men  carrying  sacks  of  gold  from  cave  to 
ship.  Dick  suddenly  waked — sat  up  and  said:  "  Where — 
where's  all  that  money?"  Elinor  said,  "What  money?" 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  41 

Dick  said  "  that  gold  those — those  men  had !  "      Reading 
to  herself! 

SEELIG.  [Easily.']  Yes.  [Pause.]  The  connection  be 
tween  mother  and  child  is  more  subtle,  more  enduring  than 
our  physiologies  even  suggest. 

[SEELIG  and  BURRILL  sit* 

CLAYTON.  Elinor  invited  the  Underwoods  to  the  opera — 
or  I  don't  think  she  would  have  gone  herself. 

SEELIG.     Courtlandt  Underwoods? 

CLAYTON.     Yes. 

SEELIG.  Mrs.  Underwood's  suddenly  ill.  That'?  where 
I  was  delayed  this  evening. 

CLAYTON.     Too  ill  to  go  out? 

SEELIG.     Oh  yes. 

CLAYTON.     [Thoughtfully.]  — M'm. 

SEELIG.     [To  BURRILL.]     Doesn't  the  opera  attract  your" 

BURRILL.     Yes,  but — more  important  business  here. 

CLAYTON.     Those  architects  have  sued  us. 

SEELIG.     Sued  you? 

CLAYTON.  [Nodding.]  Libel.  My  editor  insinuated 
graft  in  the  sculpture  awards  and  they  jumped  us. 

SEELIG.  [Laughing.]  Well.  [Looks  to  BURRILL.]  You 
insurgent  artists  are  getting  prompt  action. 

BURRILL.  Yes — I  feel  a  little  guilty  at  involving  Mr* 
Clayton. 

CLAYTON.  [Reassuringly.]  We'll  take  care  of  that, 
[To  SEELIG.]  The  Judge  is  coming  to  confer  with  us — 
Judge  Hoover.  [SEELIG  nods.  HOOVER  appears  in  hall.] 
Ah — here  he  is. 

HOOVER.     [Removing  his  overcoa-t.]     Hello,  Frank. 

CLAYTON.  Waiting  for  you.  [Meets  Hoover  who  comes 
into  room.  SEELIG  rises.]  Dr.  Seelig,  you  know. 

HOOVER.     Good  evening. 


42  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

SEELIG.     Judge. 

HOOVER.     How  are  you,  Burrill? 

BURRILL.    Good  evening—  [Shake  hands.] 

[Enter  SUTTON. 

SUTTON.    Automobile  for  Dr.  Seelig. 
SEELIG.     Tell  him  to  wait,  please.  [SUTTON  goes. 

CLAYTON.     [Answering  HOOVER'S  look.]     Doctor's  been 
good  enough  to  stay  and  see  Dick. 
HOOVER.     [Anxiously.]     Boy  sick? 
SEELIG.     These  sudden  fevers ;  can't  tell  immediately. 
HOOVER.     [To  BURRILL.]      Poor  little  Dick— when  he's 
ill  it  gets  me  right  in  the  stomach.     Man's  an  idiot  to  have 
grandchildren. 

SEELIG.     Still  a  pardonable  weakness. 

HOOVER.      [To  BURRILL.]      I  did  a  stupid  thing.     Left 

the  copies  of  those  letters  you  sent  me — the  photographs 

.all  at  my  office. 

BURRILL.     Originals  are  at  my  studio — only  two  blocks. 

[Starts  out. 

CLAYTON.     [To  HOOVER.]     Do  we  need  them? 
HOOVER.     Better  have  them. 

BURRILL.     Won't  be  five  minutes.  [Goes  out. 

HOOVER.      Doctor,  may  Dick  see   his  grandfather? 

[Miss  DOANE  appears  down  the  stairs. 
SEELIG.     I'm  waiting  for  him  to  get  quiet,  but — 

[Miss  DOANE  enters. 
HOOVER.     No,  you're  the  boss. 
Miss  DOANE.     Doctor. 
SEELIG.     Ready? 

[Miss  DOANE  nods.     SEELIG  goes  with   her  and 

upstairs. 

HOOVER.     [Alone  with  CLAYTON.]     Nearly  scared  me  out 
of  a  year's  growth. 
CLAYTON.     Dick? 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  43 

HOOVER.  Seelig.  I  feared  you'd  asked  him  to  sit  in  this 
conference. 

CLAYTON.  [Shaking  head.]  I  know  your  prejudice  too 
well  for  that. 

HOOVER.  Not  him  expressly — but  the  whole  breed — and 
it  isn't  prejudice.  Observation  and  experience. 

CLAYTON.     I'll  chance  'em. 

HOOVER.  Chance  is  the  word.  This  libel  suit's  a  proof 
of  it.  [Gets  a  cigarette.] 

CLAYTON.     An  Irishman  wrote  the  editorial. 

HOOVER.  [Nods.]  On  information  furnished  by  a  Jew. 
Wasn't  it? 

CLAYTON.  De  Lota!  Yes — but  De  Lota's  pretty 
cautious. 

HOOVER.  [Shaking  head  in  disapproval.]  Bad  lot — 
I  know  him.  He'll  get  in  some  nasty  scandal  before  he 
finishes  and  it'll  react  on  your  business. 

CLAYTON.     Why  do  you  say  that? 

HOOVER.  A  rounder — stamping  ground  the  Great  White 
Way. 

CLAYTON.  His  contract's  the  Great  White  Way — he 
does  art  and  music  for  us. 

HOOVER.  I  passed  his  side  street  hotel  on  my  way  here. 
De  Lota  sneaking  in  with  a  girl. 

CLAYTON.     [Easily.]     Guess  you're  mistaken. 

HOOVER.     I  called  him. 

CLAYTON.  His  hotel?  [HOOVER  nods.]  De  Lota  stops 
at  the  Ducal  Apartments. 

HOOVER.      [Nods.]      Ducal   Apartments? 

CLAYTON.    That's  a  bachelor  place — women  not  admitted. 

HOOVER.    Not  admitted  nor  permitted  after  eleven  o'clock. 

CLAYTON.  I'd  hate  to  know  as  much  about  this  town 
as  you  do. 

HOOVER.    Wait  till  you're  mj  age. 


44  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

CLAYTON.  [After  a  disarming  pause.]  What  kind  of 
a  girl? 

HOOVER.     Didn't  get  her  number — she  scooted  ahead. 

CLAYTON.     You  spoke  to  him? 

HOOVER.     Called  to  him. 

CLAYTON.     Called? 

HOOVER.     Yes —  I  was  forty  feet  away. 

CLAYTON.     Had  your  nerve  with  you. 

HOOVER.  The  girl  dropped  something — I  thought  it  was 
a  fan. 

CLAYTON.    Well? 

HOOVER.     'Twasn't — but  that's  why  I  called  De  Lota. 

CLAYTON.     How  do  you  know  it  wasn't? 

HOOVER.     I  picked  it  up. 

CLAYTON.     What  was  it? 

HOOVER.     A  libretto. 

CLAYTON.     What  libretto? 

HOOVER.  Don't  know —  but  grand  opera — I  remember 
that  and  libretto. 

CLAYTON.     You  threw  it  away? 

HOOVER.    No — kept  it. 

CLAYTON.     Where  is  it? 

HOOVER.     Overcoat  pocket. 

CLAYTON.  [Pause.]  I'd  like  to  see  it.  Think  I  could 
have  some  fun  with  De  Lota. 

HOOVER.  [Going  up  to  hall-way.']  My  idea  too — fun 
and  word  of  caution.  [Gets  coat  and  returns  feeling  in 
pocket  for  libretto.] 

CLAYTON.    Caution — naturally. 

HOOVER.     Here  it  is.     [Reads.]     Aida. 

CLAYTON.      [Taking   libretto   savagely.]      Aida — let   me 

see  it. 

i 

HOOVER.       What's     the     matter?        [Puts     coat     on     a 

chair.] 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  45 

CLAYTON.  [In  sudden  anger,  throws  book.]  The  dog! 
Damn  him — damn  both  of  them! 

HOOVER.    What  is  it?     See  here — Who's  with  Dick? 

CLAYTON.  Not  his  mother— no!  [Points  to  libretto  on 
the  floor.]  Marked.  I  did  that  myself,  not  an  hour  ago, 
and  gave  it  to  her. 

HOOVER.     To  Elinor? 

CLAYTON.     [Calling  as  he  rushes  to  the  hall.]     Sutton! 

Sutton ! 

HOOVER.     Hold  on,  Frank — there's  some  mistake. 

CLAYTON.      [Gets  overcoat  and  hat.]      Get  me  a  cab 

never  mind—  I'll  take  Seelig's  machine.  [Disappears.] 
Here!  Doctor  Seelig  says  to  take  me  to — [He  goes  out. 
Door  bangs.]  [SUTTON  enters  from  dining  room. 

SUTTON.     Is  master  Dick  in  danger,  sir? 

HOOVER.     [Nervously.]     I  don't  know,  Sutton.    Where's 
his  mother? 

SUTTON.     Opera,  sir. 

HOOVER.     With  whom? 

SUTTON.    Mr.  De  Lota. 

HOOVER.     That'll  do.     [SUTTON  goes.] 

[Enter  SEELIG  from  upstairs. 

HOOVER.     Doctor  Seelig. 
,    SEELIG.     Judge  Hoover. 

HOOVER.      Mr.    Clayton    was    summoned    hurriedly — he 
took  your  automobile. 

SEELIG.     I'm  glad  it  could  be  of  service. 

HOOVER.    I'll  get  you  a  cab.     [Goes  to  telephone.] 

SEELIG.      I'm  not  going,   thank  you— simply   sending  a 
prescription.     [Starts  toward  push  button.] 

HOOVER.     Perhaps  you'd — better  go — Doctor  Seelig. 

SEELIG.     [Stopping.]     Why  so,  Judge?     I've  a  very  sick 
little  patient  upstairs. 

HOOVER.    Your  pardon!    But—  [Pause.]     Mr.  Clayton's 


46  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

just  had  some  disturbing  news — .     The — I  think  the  family 
would  rather  be  left  to  themselves  this  evening. 

SEELIG.  I  shanlt  intrude  past  professional  requirement — 
believe  me.  [Rings.] 

HOOVER.  I  do  believe  you  !  Doctor.  [Nervously  getting 
his  coat  from  the  chair.']  You  and  I  are  not  especially  inti 
mate — but  in  your  own  sphere  of  usefulness  I  respect  you. 

SEELIG.     Thank  you. 

HOOVER.  A  physician  is  not  unlike  a  lawyer  in  his  re 
lations  to  his  client.  [SEELIG  nods.]  I  ask  you  to  treat 
sacredly  and  with  discretion — any  matter  that  comes  to 
your  knowledge  here — tonight. 

SEELIG.  My  obligation  to  do  that,  Judge  Hoover — has 
a  firmer  anchorage  than  even  your  request. 

HOOVER.  I  know  it — excuse  me.  Clayton's  news — bears 
on  me,  too,  a  little. 

[Enter  SUTTON  in  response  to  SEELIG'S  ring. 

HOOVER.  Sutton — Mr.  Burrill  will  return.  Say  that 
important  business  has  called  me  away. 

SUTTON.     Yes,  sir. 

HOOVER.     And  we'll  make  another  appointment. 

[Quickly  goes  out. 

SEELIG.    Sutton — 

SUTTON.     Yes,  sir  [Returns.] 

SEELIG.  Is  there  someone  who  can  take  this  prescription 
to  the  druggist  and  wait  for  it? 

SUTTON.     Yes,  sir. 

SEELIG.     And  go  quickly? 

SUTTON.     Yes,  sir. 

SEELIG.     Frazer's. 

[SuTTON  nods  and  leaves. 

SEELIG.  [At  'phone.]  Bryant  6151.  [Pause — regards 
watch.]  Hello — Frazer's?  [Pause.]  Doctor  Seelig.  I'm 
sending  a  prescription  by  messenger — from  Mr.  Frank 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  47 

Clayton's.     Will  you  please  fill  it  as  promptly  as  possible? 
[Pause.]      Thank  you.      [Hangs  up  'phone.] 

[BURRILL  and  SUTTON  appear  in  hall.     BUR- 
RILL  carries  a  package  of  papers. 

SUTTON.  Mr.  Clayton  and  Judge  Hoover  have  been 
called  away.  Judge  Hoover  said  he'd  make  another 
appointment.  [SUTTON  and  BURRILL  enter. 

BURRILL.  Oh— [Pause.]     Well— I'll  leave  this  envelope 
for   them— they   may   care   to   see   it   when   they   come   in. 
[Seeing  SEELIG.]      How's  the  boy,  Doctor? 
SEELIG.     Quite  ill — poor  baby. 

BURRILL.     Too  bad — [To  SUTTON.]     I'll  speak  with  the 
Doctor  a  moment.     SUTTON  bows — and  goes  out.] 
BURRILL.     You  have  a  minute  or  two? 
SEELIG.      [Still  seated  at  'phone  table.}      I've  sent  for 
some  medicine — and  am  free  until  it  comes. 

BURRILL.  [Approaching.']  I  want  to  thank  you,  Doctor, 
for  your  interest  in  my  work. 

SEELIG.     It's  been  a  pleasure,  Mr.  Burrill. 
BURRILL.     It's  been  a  lesson  to  me. 
SEELIG.     Lesson? 

BURRILL.      [Nodding.]      I'm  reprehensively  ignorant  on 
most  subjects,  especially  religion  and — well — your  interest 
in  sculpture — your  toleration  of  it  surprised  me. 
SEELIG.     Why  ? 

BURRILL.  I'd  always  thought  there  was  something  in 
your  tenets  that  forbade  any  graven  image. 

SEELIG.  Only  as  objects  of  idolatry  I  think.  The  words 
are:  'Nor  bow  down  and  worship  them."  As  works  of 
art  I  don't  know  any  prohibition.  My  dear  old  father  was 
a  very  orthodox  believer — closed  his  office  on  Saturday  and 
all  that— but  he  was  a  liberal  patron  of  the  arts.  In  fact, 
I  don't  know  a  Jew  among  a  fairly  extensive  circle — that 
feels  as  you — as  you  feared,  Mr.  Burrill. 


48  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

BURRILL.     You  are  not  so  orthodox  as  your  father  then? 

SEELIG.     Not  orthodox  at  all. 

BURRILL.     I  got  a  contrary  impression. 

SEELIG.     From  Judge  Hoover? 

BURRILL.     From  Miss  Vedah. 

SEELIG.     Vedah? 

BURRILL.     Yes.     It  is  of  her  I  wish  to  speak. 

SEELIG.     Ah ! 

BURRILL.  I  wouldn't  speak  of  her — if — if  I  didn't  think 
a  mistake  was  being  made,  Dr.  Seelig. 

SEELIG.     A  mistake! 

BURRILL.  Yes — I  mean  that  my  own  feelings  are  not  my 
sole  guide.  I  think  that  Miss  Vedah — likes  me. 

SEELIG.  I'm  glad  you  see  it.  I  have  cautioned  her  myself 
— and  now  perhaps  you  will  aid  me. 

BURRILL.  I  speak  to  you  about  it  as  a  matter  of  honor. 
You — you've  been  so  ready  to  invite  me  to  your  house  and 
all  that — and — 

SEELIG.     And  to  tell  you  early  of  Vedah's  engagement? 

BURRILL.  Yes —  so  my  duty  is  to  be  a  trifle  old  fashioned, 
if  you  will,  and  to  tell  you  that — I  mean  to  increase  her — 
regard  for  me — all  I  can. 

SEELIG.     Her  regard?     Only  that? 

BURRILL.    I've  no  right  to  speak  for  her — so — 

SEELIG.     Has  Vedah  said  more? 

BURRILL.    I've  said  more.    She  knows  that  I  love  her. 

SEELIG.     You  told  her  so? 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

SEELIG.    Then  this  caution  to  me  is  somewhat  late,  isn't  it  ? 

BURRILL.  But  unavoidably.  If  I  didn't  think  she  cared 
more  for  me  than  for — the  man  to  whom  she's  engaged,  I 
don't  think  I'd  have  spoken. 

SEELIG.     You  mean  to  me? 

BURRILL.     To  either  of  you. 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  49 

SEELIG.    Why  noft  first  to  me  ? 

BURRILL.  Until  I  was  sure  there  was  no  need  to  distress 
you,  as  I  felt  you  would  be,  as  I  feel  you  are.  [Walks  away 
as  having  said  all  that  is  possible.] 

SEELIG.  [Pause,  slowly  rises  and  approaches  BURRILL.] 
In  asking  your  patient  understanding,  Mr.  Burrill — I  am 
fortunate  that  you  are  a  sculptor. 

BURRILL.    How  so,  Doctor? 

SEELIG.  Most  sculptors  think  in  large  symbols.  The 
little  span  of  human  life  takes  its  true  proportion. 

BURRILL.  This  life  is  all  I'm  sure  of.  I  fear  its  rather 
important  to  me. 

SEELIG.  It's  all  any  of  us  is  sure  of.  [Pause.]  I'm  not 
a  religionist,  Mr.  Burrill — but — [Pause.]  It  has  been 
wisely  written,  "  Of  all  factors  that  make  races  and  indi 
viduals  what  they  are  the  most  potent  is  religion."  It  would 
be  a  very  sorry  world  without  it. 

BURRILL.  There  can  be  more  than  one  religion,  however, 
can't  there? 

SEELIG.  There  should  be.  Even  to  grind  corn  there 
must  be  two  millstones.  And  for  the  world  to  grow  in 
religion  there  must  be  more  than  one  idea.  [Pause.]  The 
belief  in  one  God  is  the  trust  given  to  the  Jew — the  precious 
idea  of  which  every  Jewish  woman  is  custodian  and  which 
to  transmit — the  Jew  suffers  and  persists.  You  see,  Mr. 
Burrill,  that  there  is  something  here  to  think  of. 

BURRILL.     Yes. 

SEELIG.  The  Christian  faith  itself  needs  our  testimony. 
It  is  built  upon  our  foundation — and  whenever  a  daughter 
quits  us  the  religious  welfare  of  the  whole  world  is  the 
loser. 

BURRILL.     I  don't  see  that. 

SEELIG.  Pardon  the  pride,  which  our  proverb  says  "  Goes 
often  before  a  fall  "  and  let  me  call  your  recollection  to  the 


50  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

nobility  of  this  trust  which  a  Jewish  girl  abandons  if  she 
marries  elsewhere.  [BURRILL  nods.']  [A  pause.']  When 
Egypt  worshiped  Isis  and  Osiris  and  Thoth,  Israel  pro 
claimed  the  one  God.  When  India  knelt  to  Vishnu  and  Siva 
and  Kali,  Israel  prayed  only  to  Jehovah  and  down  past 
Greece  and  Rome,  with  their  numerous  divinities  from  Jove 
to  Saturn,  Judah  looked  up  to  one  God.  What  a  legacy — 
what  a  birthright!  How  small  our  personal  desires  grow 
in  comparison.  As  a  sculptor,  who  writes  in  bronze  that 
all  time  may  read,  what  message  can  you  leave  if  one  so 
grand  as  this  fails  of  your  respect? 
BURRILL.  It  has  my  respect  sir. 

SEELIG.     I  was  sure  of  it.     Is  it  too  much  to  ask  that  a 
girl  shall  have  time  to  think  of  this? 

BURRILL.     No,  sir!  I  shall  say  nothing  to  her  more  than 
I  have  said,  which  is  I  love  her  and  I  know  she  loves  me. 

[SEELIG   bows  slowly,   BURRILL   respectfully 

acknowledges  the  bow. 
[ELINOR   enters   excitedly,  sees  BURRILL  and  SEELIG  and 

quickly  passes  to  the  music  room.    HOOVER  comes  in. 
HOOVER.      [Nervously. ,]      Mr.  Burrill — you  will  have  to 
excuse  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clayton  tonight? 

BURRILL.     I  know — good  night.     [Goes  quickly  out.'] 
[HoovER  turns  helplessly  toward  SEELIG,  who  with  a  ges 
ture  of  comprehension,  goes  upstairs.    As  SEELIG 

goes,  ELINOR  enters  by  the  other  arch. 
ELINOR.    Don't  leave  me,  father.     [She  walks  excitedly.'] 
HOOVER.     I  won't.     But  I'm  not  only  your  father — I'm 
your  attorney — a  counsellor.    Let  me  have  the  truth,  Elinor. 
The  door  was  locked? 

ELINOR.     [Sitting.']     De  Lota  locked  it  in  sheer  playful 
ness.     I  was  begging  him  to  open  it  when  Frank  came. 

HOOVER.      But  why  there   at   all?     Why  in   De  Lota's 
rooms  ? 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  51 

ELINOR.  Just  plain  madness.  Twice  at  dinner  the  con 
versation  got  onto  Mr.  Burrill's  sculpture.  Frank  has  had 
an  affair  with  Burrill's  model.  [Rises  and  walks;  throws 
her  cloak  onto  the  table.] 

HOOVER.    When  ?    Not  since  the  trouble  of  Atlantic  City  ? 

ELINOR.  This  year  in  Paris — I've  made  him  almost 
admit  it.  De  Lota  introduced  them.  Tonight  when  we 
found  the  Underwoods  couldn't  go — and  we  were  alone  for 
the  evening,  De  Lota  and  I — he  proposed  seeing  some 
Japanese  carvings  he  has  in  his  rooms. 

HOOVER.  But,  Elinor — you're  not  an  infant.  A  proposal 
of  that  kind  is  only  a  mask  for  lawlessness. 

ELINOR.  I  am  lawless.  He  claims  the  right  to  follow  his 
fancy  and  does  follow  it — my  right  is  equal.  He  introduced 
me  to  this  very  woman  on  the  Boulevard — but  I  didn't 
strike  her,  did  I? 

HOOVER.     Did  Frank  strike  De  Lota? 

ELINOR.  Like  a  cheap  bully.  [The  front  door  is  slammed 
violently.  CLAYTON  enters,  pale  with  excitement.] 

CLAYTON.     You  came  here,  did  you? 

ELINOR.  Why  shouldn't  I?  You  haven't  made  it  such 
a  sanctified  temple  that  I'm  unworthy  to  enter  it. 

CLAYTON.     [To  HOOVER.]     She  can't  stay. 

HOOVER.  [Going  to  CLAYTON.]  See  here,  Frank. 
You're  in  no  state  of  mind  to  make  any  important  decision. 

CLAYTON.    The  facts  make  the  decision — 

HOOVER.     You  haven't  got  the  facts? 

CLAYTON.  I've  got  all  I  can  stand  and  we  won't  vul 
garly  discuss  them.  I  decline  to  live  with  an  adulteress. 

ELINOR.  I'm  not  that — but  I  am  an  indignant  and  cruelly 
neglected  woman. 

CLAYTON.  She's  your  daughter.  Now  take  her  from  my 
house  or — I'll  have  the  servants  do  it! 

[Strides  into  the  music  room. 


52  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

ELINOR.     [Impetuously.]     Coward!     His  house — 

HOOVER.     Elinor — that's  not  the  way. 

ELINOR.  I  haven't  worked  in  his  office — but  every  step 
in  his  success  we  consulted  and  agreed  upon.  His  house! 
You  know  that  every  investment — 

HOOVER.  He  doesn't  mean  it.  He's  excited  beyond 
control — any  husband  would  be. 

ELINOR.  In  every  tight  place  it  was  your  legal  advice 
that— 

HOOVER.  We  can't  go  into  that  now,  my  dear.  Humor 
him — avoid  a  scene  before  the  servants.  I'll  take  you  to  a 
hotel  and — 

ELINOR.  Hotel!  The  cruelty  of  it — turned  like  a  com 
mon  woman  onto  the  street.  [Sinks  overwhelmed  into  a 
chair.] 

HOOVER.  Only  a  day  or  two.  If  things  were  only  as  you 
say  at  De  Lota's  we  can  get  Frank  to  believe  us — 

ELINOR.    After  what  I've  forgiven  him !     Oh,  dad — 

HOOVER.     Don't — don't!     Change  your  gown  and  we'll 
go.       Tomorrow    will    put    another    color    on    everything. 
[Helps    her    up    and    leads    her    protesting 
toward  the  hall. 

ELINOR.  [Resentfully.]  The  injustice  of  it — !  The 
cruelty — !  The — 

[SEELIG  comes  downstairs  and  meets  HOOVER 
and  ELINOR  in  the  doorway. 

SEELIG.     Pardon — 

HOOVER.     [Trying  to  pass.]     Mrs.  Clayton  isn't  well. 

[SEELIG  enters. 

SEELIG.      [Taking   ELINOR'S   hand.]      I    see— but   come 
from  the  hall.     Dick  will  hear  you. 
ELINOR.    Dick? 
SEELIG.    Yes, 


Act  II]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  53 

ELINOR.     Dick's  ill — ?     I'll  go  to  him. 

SEELIG.  [Restraining  ELINOR.]  One  moment — [To 
HOOVER.]  You  go  to  him. 

HOOVER.     The  situation  here,  Doctor — 

SEELIG.  I  think,  Judge  Hoover,  I  comprehend  the  situa 
tion  here,  please  go.  [HOOVER  goes  upstairs. 

ELINOR.  [As  SEELIG  brings  her  further  into  the  room.'] 
I  can't  leave  without  seeing  my  boy. 

SEELIG.  Leave!  [Slowly.]  No — no — but  you  must  be 
calm  when  you  go  to  him.  There  must  be  no  excitement 
whatever. 

ELINOR.  [Hysterically.]  I  can't  be  calm  and  go  away 
from  him — if  he's  ill.  You  know  the  boy,  Doctor.  How 
much  we  are  to  each  other — all  his  life — I've  never  neg 
lected  him. 

SEELIG.    I  know. 

ELINOR.  It's  too  much  to  bear — [Falls  weeping  into  the 
chair  at  fireplace.] 

[CLAYTON  enters 

CLAYTON.  [With  suppression.]  If  there's  any  man, 
Doctor,  your  people  should  have  run  straight  with — I'm 
the  man. 

SEELIG.     My  people? 

CLAYTON.  [Pointing  to  ELINOR.]  Locked  in  Ben  De 
Lota's  rooms. 

SEELIG.    My  people !     [Pause.]     A  Jew ! 

CLAYTON.     [Vehemently.]     A  Jew. 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  There  was  another  Jew — if  one  of 
His  people  may  quote  Him — [Puts  hand  on  ELINOR'S  head.] 
"  Are  you  to  cast  the  first  stone  ?  " 

CLAYTON.  I'm  no  hypocrite — I  never  subscribed  to  his 
code — and  I'll  not  begin  the  living  hell — of  life  with  a  dis 
honored  woman. 


54,  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  II 

ELINOR.  [Rising  defiantly.]  I'm  not  dishonored.  I 
only  claim  the  right  you  exercise  for  yourself  to  go  where 
life  interests  me.  If  it's  honorable  and  moral  for  you- — 
it's  equally  honorable  and  equally  moral  for  me. 

CLAYTON.  Every  right  you  may  possibly  claim  you  have 
fully  earned  by  your  visit  to  Ben  De  Lota's  room.  I'm 
going  to  make  your  equality  complete.  From  now  on, 
you'll  protect  yourself  and  you'll  earn  the  substance  your 
vanity  squanders. 

ELINOR.    Ah! — 

SEELIG.  [Interrupting  ELINOR'S  outburst.]  One  mo 
ment — don't  speak,  my  child.  [Pause.  Calms  ELINOR  to 
her  chair]  Your  difference  must  wait.  Just  now  Mrs. 
Clayton  must  be  composed. 

CLAYTON.  [Explosively]  We're  past  the  consideration 
of  her  nerves.  Just  now  Mrs.  Clayton  must  take  what  she 
needs  for  the  night  and  leave — her  trunks  will  follow  her. 
[Goes  to  the  push  button  and  rings] 

SEELIG.  [In  masterful  calm.]  No  Frank — she  shall 
not  leave. 

CLAYTON.    She'll  not — 

SEELIG.  She  shall  not. 

CLAYTON.     [Angrily]     What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it ? 

SEELIG.  Every  thing!  There's  a  little  boy  upstairs — 
no  one  shall  move  him  until  I  give  permission,  and  his  life 
for  the  next  few  days  will  depend  on  the  mother  that  gave 
it  him. 

[Enter  SUTTON. 

CLAYTON.  [Pause]  SUTTON —  [Pause — SEELIG  looks 
sharply  and  steadily  at  CLAYTON.]  pack  my  valise — and 
send  it  to  the  Club. 

SUTTON.    Yes,  sir.  [Goes  out. 

Clayton.       [Leaving    the    room.]      Good    night,    Doctorv 
Seelig. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  55 

SEELIG.      [Quietly.]      Good  night. 

[ELINOR  still  seated  turns  weeping  to  SEELIG 
who  embraces  her  paternally. 
Curtain. 


ACT  III 

[SCENE:  Library  in  house  of  DOCTOR  SEELIG.  Door  at 
back  lets  into  Drawing  Room  which  formed  the  -first 
act.  Another  door  to  left  lets  into  the  hallway.  Large 
diamond  paned  and  leaded  window  with  seat  at  right. 
Mantel  and  -fireplace  are  at  back.  Over  mantel  is 
picture  of  Judith.  Other  pictures  are  heavily  framed' 
on  wall.  Book-cases  height  of  mantel  are  at  all  walls. 
The  celling  is  carved  and  heavily  beamed.  Near  win 
dow  is  library  table  with  lamp.  In  front  of  table  and 
masking  it  is  heavy  sofa.  Big  easy  chairs  flank  and 
half  face  the  fire.  A  second  table  has  a  telephone.  On 
mantel  are  DE  LOTA'S  two  vases.  Other  ornaments 
complete  shelf  furniture.  General  tone  of  scene  and 
carpet  is  red  and  gold. 

At  Rise  of  Curtain  BURRILL  is  discovered  waiting. 

[HOLLAND  enters. 

HOLLAND.     Miss  Seelig  will  be  down  immediately. 
BURRILL.    Thank  you.  [Exit  HOLLAND. 

[BURRILL  scans  the  book  shelves. 
[VEDAH  enters. 

VEDAH.    Julian!     [Extends  both  hands.] 
BURRILL.     My  sweetheart!     [Kisses  her.] 
VEDAH.     Together  after  all  the  talk  and  tears  and  family 
councils. 

BURRILL.     Have  there  been  tears? 
VEDAH.     [Nodding.]     Some. 


56  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

BURRILL.     You  poor  dear. 

VEDAH.     I've  tried  so  hard  not  to  care  for  you. 

BURRILL.     Have  you?     [They  sit  together  on  the  sofa.~\ 

VEDAH.  Yes.  Read  the  persecutions  of  my  ancestry 
and  blamed  it  all  on  yours  and  then  said,  with  Mercutio, 
"  A  plague  on  both  your  houses." 

BURRILL.  I  hope  you  are  as  incurably  smitten  as  Mer- 
cutio  was  when  he  said  that. 

VEDAH.  I  think  I  must  be.  Wasn't  there  something 
about  a  church  door? 

BURRILL.     You  angel! 

VEDAH.  Our  critics  write  that  the  vice  of  our  race  is 
display. 

BURRILL.     Well? 

VEDAH.  And  I  fear  it's  true.  I  have  a  great  envie  to 
have  the  noted  American  sculptor  in  our  box  and  all  the 
opera  glasses  saying,  "  Vedah  Seelig !  She's  caught  him 
at  last." 

BURRILL.    Have  you  manoeuvred  greatly? 

VEDAH.     Shamelessly — not  even  introduced  to  you. 

BURRILL.  I  know  it — but  we've  met,  haven't  we? 
[Kisses  her.~\ 

VEDAH.  [Resisting  tardily.']  That  isn't  being  done,  you 
know,  until  the  engagement  is  announced. 

BURRILL.     How  does' one  tell? 

VEDAH.    I  suppose — one  doesn't  tell? 

BURRILL.    What  have  you  been  doing  since  I  saw  you? 

VEDAH.  Home  mostly.  You  know  Mrs.  Clayton  is  visit 
ing  us? 

BURRILL.    Mrs.  Clayton? 

VEDAH.  And  little  Dick.  He  has  the  room  that  was 
my  nursery.  I've  spent  a  lot  of  time  with  Dick. 

BURRILL.     And  what  operas — what  parties? 

VEDAH.     Twice  to  the  opera. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  57 

BURRILL.     With — ? 

VEDAH.     Mama.     Then  once  to  the  theater. 

BURRILL.     With—? 

VEDAH.     Mama  and  papa. 

BURRILL.  No  suitors?  [VEDAH  shakes  her  head."]  Not 
even  one? 

VEDAH.     You  mean  have  I  seen  Mr.  De  Lota? 

BURRILL.    Well? 

VEDAH.    He  is  out  of  the  city. 

BURRILL.    Oh. 

[MRS.  SEELIG  enters. 

MRS.   SEELIG.     Vedah!  [BURRILL  and  VEDAH  rise. 

VEDAH.     Mama. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Mr.  Burrill.     [Gives  hand."] 

BURRILL.    Mrs.  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    You  didn't  tell  me  Mr.  Burrill  had  called. 

VEDAH.     Did  you  wish  to  know? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Of  course.  [She  goes  to  the  telephone."] 
Give  me  2500  Plaza,  please.  [Pause.]  I  want  to  speak  to 
Doctor  Seelig  if  he's  there.  [Pause.']  Mrs.  Seelig. 

VEDAH.    Why  do  you  want  him,  Mama? 

MRS.  SEELIG.    You'll  see  in  good  time. 

VEDAH.  [To  BURRILL.]  A  girl  never  grows  up  in  her 
mother's  mind. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Yes.  That  you,  Samuel?  [Pause.]  Will 
you  be  home  soon?  [Pause.]  Well,  nothing  important — 
except — [Pause.]  Mr.  Burrill  is  here — and — I  thought 
I'd  ask  him  to  wait  for  you — [Pause.]  No —  [Pause.] 
No — well — I  think  it  much  better  for  you  to  do  it  your 
self —  [BURRILL  and  VEDAH  quickly  exchange  glances  and 
BURRILL  comically  interests  himself  in  the  books.]  Perhaps 
— but  are  you  coming?  [Pause.]  Thank  you.  [Hangs 
up  'phone.] 

VEDAH.    What  is  it? 


58  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

MRS.  SEELIG.  You  know —  [To  BURRILL.]  Sit  down, 
Mr.  Burrill —  [MRS.  SEELIG  and  VEDAH  sit  together.'] 
Vedah's  father  and  I  have  had  a  good  many  talks  about — 
about  you  and  Vedah. 

BURRILL.      Yes? 

MRS.  SEELIG.     We  haven't  always  agreed. 

BURRILL.     I'm  sorry  to  be  the  cause  of  any  difference. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  It's  Doctor's  fault.  I've  always  said  to 
him,  don't  invite  any  men  to  your  house  in  whom  you 
wouldn't  be  willing  to  see  your  daughter  interested. 

VEDAH.     But  Mama,,  Papa  didn't  invite  Mr.  Burrill. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  I  know,  but  Papa  was  with  you.  That 
was  the  time  for  him  to  have  been  firm.  And  not  go  locking 
the  stable  after — 

VEDAH.     Oh,  Mama,  don't  make  me  into  a  stolen  horse. 

BURRILL.    No — see  what  I'd  be. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [To  VEDAH.]     You'd  better  listen. 

BURRILL.     Pardon. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Vedah's  our  only  child,  Mr.  Burrill,  and 
my  first  wish  is  to  see  her  happy — but — 

VEDAH.  Mama  means  that  any  unhappiness  of  mine 
wouldn't  matter  if  she  had  another  daughter. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Mr.  Burrill  understands  me,  I'm  sure. 

BURRILL.     I  do,  Mrs.  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  But  Doctor  and  I  agree  that  Vedah 
should  think  calmly. 

VEDAH.     That's   expecting  a   good  deal. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  The  Doctor  is — going  to — well,  not  let 
you  see  so  much  of  each  other,  and  I  want  to  prepare  you, 
Mr.  Burrill,  for  his  talk  with  you. 

[Enter  HOLLAND. 

HOLLAND.     Mr.  De  Lota  and  Judge  Hoover. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Judge  Hoover!  Excuse  me.  [Follows 
HOLLAND  out."] 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  59 

BURRILL.     Mr.  De  Lota? 

VEDAH.  Yes.  And  now  with  Papa  going  to  talk — 
you  haven't  informed  yourself  about  that  Paris  affair. 

BURRILL.    I  wouldn't  talk  that  no  matter  what  I  knew. 

VEDAH.     It's  on  my  mind  all  the  time. 
[Enter  MRS.  SEELIG. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  You  go  to  the  living  room —  [VEDAH  and 
BURRILL  start  out.~\  I'll  join  you.  [VEDAH  and  BURRILL 
go  to  drawing  room.']  Come  in,  gentlemen. 

[Enter  HOOVER  and  DE  LOTA  from  the  hall. 

HOOVER.     Some  years  since  we  met,  Mrs.  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Yes —  [To  DE  LOTA.]  You've  been 
away,  Benjamin? 

DE  LOTA.     [Nods.]     How  is  Mrs.  Clayton's  son? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Doctor  says  he  may  go  out  in  a  day  or 
two. 

DE  LOTA.     [To  HOOVER  in  tone  of  congratulation.]     Ah! 

HOOVER.  It's  been  very  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Seelig,  to  have 
him  and  his  mother  here. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  A  change  of  surroundings — and  Dick's 
always  called  me  Auntie.  [ELINOR  enters  by  the  door 
from  hall.] 

ELINOR.     Father! 

HOOVER.     My  dear.     [Kisses  her.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.    We  shall  see  you  later,  Mr.  De  Lota  ? 

DE  LOTA.     Oh — yes — yes. 

[MRS.   SEELIG   goes   into   the   drawing   room 
closing  the  door  after  her. 

ELINOR.    You  two  come — here  together. 

HOOVER.     I  brought  Mr.  De  Lota — yes. 

ELINOR.     Why? 

HOOVER.  Sit  down,  my  dear.  It's  going  to  take  more 
than  a  minute.  [ELINOR  sits.]  And  you —  [DE  LOTA 
sits.]  When  have  you  heard  from  Frank? 


60 


AS  A  MAN  THINKS 


[Act  III 


ELINOR.      [Anxiously  rising.]      Don't  they  know  where 
he  is? 

HOOVER.    Good  Heavens,  Elinor — don't  answer  my  ques 
tion  by  asking  another. 
ELINOR.     But  don't  they? 

Don't  who  know  where  he  is? 
Anybody. 
Hundreds  I  suppose — but  have  you  heard  from 


HOOVER. 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 
him? 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 
suit. 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 

ELINOR. 

HOOVER. 

ELINOR. 


No. 

Doesn't  he  ask  after  little  Dick? 
He  'phones  Doctor  Seelig  every  day. 

But  you? 
No.     [Pause.] 

Frank  has  instructed  Colonel  Emory  to  begin 


You  mean? 

Divorce. 

Oh! 

You  expected  it,  didn't  you? 

Not  after  his  conduct  with  this  second  woman 
— this  sculptor  model  in  Paris. 

HOOVER.     That  wasn't  condoned,  eh? 

ELINOR.    Not  after  I  discovered  it. 

HOOVER.    What — what  proof  have  you  of  that  affair  ? 

ELINOR.     He  admitted  it. 

HOOVER.     [Quickly.]     He  did? 

ELINOR.    Almost. 

HOOVER.     I  fear  "  almost "  won't  go  in  court. 

ELINOR.     And — Mr.   De   Lota   knows  it.     He  told  me 


so. 


DE  LOTA.     [As  HOOVER  turns  to  him.]     My  opinion. 
HOOVER.    You  told  Mrs.  Clayton  that,  did  you? 
DE  LOTA.     My  opinion — yes. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  61 

HOOVER.  Have  you  and  she  met  since — Clayton  and  I 
— came  to  your  hotel? 

DE  LOTA.     No. 

HOOVER.  Communicated?  [DE  LOTA  shakes  head.] 
Oh — then  you  told  her — this  opinion  of  yours  with  an  idea 
of  its  influence  upon  her? 

DE  LOTA.     I  answered  her  questions. 

HOOVER.     And  a  damn  fine  mess  you've  made  of  it. 

DE  LOTA.  Perhaps  Judge  Hoover,  we'd  better  get  to  the 
purpose  of  our  call. 

HOOVER.  Perhaps.  [To  ELINOR.]  I  don't  need  to  tell 
you,  Elinor,  that  this  thing's  awkward  for  me. 

ELINOR.     I  know. 

HOOVER.  The  other  side  can  subpoena  me — and  my  testi 
mony  can't  help  you — [Pause. ]  If  we  go  about  it  rightly, 
however,  Colonel  Emory  thinks  Frank  can  be  persuaded  to 
let  you  get  the  decree. 

ELINOR.     No. 

HOOVER.  No? 

ELINOR.  The  reason  for  not  getting  a  divorce  two  years 
ago  is  much  greater  now. 

HOOVER.    You  mean — ? 

ELINOR.    I  mean  Dick. 

HOOVER.  It's  better  for  Dick  to  have  the  blame  fixed  on 
his  father  than  upon  you. 

ELINOR.     I'm  not  guilty. 

HOOVER.  My  dear  Elinor,  I'm  your  father — and — and 
I  believe  you — but  [Pause.']  I'm  an  attorney  and  I  have 
been  a  Judge.  The  case  is  against  you. 

ELINOR.  [To  De  Lota.]  You  know  I'm  not  a  guilty 
woman. 

DE  LOTA.  I  do — but  your  father  is  right.  We  must  face 
the  situation  as  it  is.  I  love  you,  Elinor.  [Comes  to  her.] 

ELINOR.     [Recoiling.]     Don't  say  that  to  me. 


62  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

HOOVER.  My  dear,  I've  brought  Mr.  De  Lota  here  that, 
unpleasant  as  it  is,  he  might  say  it — in  my  hearing. 

ELINOR.     You? 

HOOVER.  Yes.  If  we  can't  arrange  it  as  Colonel  Emory 
proposes — [Pause.]  Mr.  De  Lota's  willing  to  marry  you. 

ELINOR.     Oh!     [Covers  her  face  in  revulsion.] 

HOOVER.  [Soothing  her.']  Don't — don't  do  that.  It 
isn't  what  any  of  us  hoped  for  some  years  ago — but  it's  a 
devilish  sight  better,  my  dear,  than  it  all  looked  last  month. 

ELINOR.  There  can't  be  such  injustice  in  the  world — that 
he  may  go  unscathed  and  little  Dick  and  I — no — no — I 
can't  live  and  have  it  come  to  that.  I  won't  consent  to  any 
such  arrangement  of  it  all. 

HOOVER.     It's  little  Dick  I'm  asking  you  to  think  of. 

ELINOR.  He's  all  I  am  thinking  of.  He's  like  his  father 
— it's  his  father's  name  he'll  carry  through  his  life  and  I'm 
not  going  even  to  propose  to  blacken  it. 

HOOVER.    What  are  you  going  to  do? 

ELINOR.     Defend  myself — defend  my  boy's  mother. 

HOOVER.     Against  the  boy's  father  ? 

ELINOR.     Yes. 

HOOVER.  And  if  the  court  gives  Clayton  a  decree  of 
divorce  ? 

ELINOR.  Then  I  shall  live — live  so  that  he'll  see  some 
day  he  was  mistaken. 

HOOVER.  There's  one  point  we  mustn't  overlook.  Dick's 
how  old? 

ELINOR.     He's  seven. 

HOOVER.     The  court  may  award  his  custody  to  Clayton. 

ELINOR.  [Greatly  agitated.]  Oh  no!  Father!  They 
won't — they  can't  do  that. 

HOOVER.     I  don't  know. 

ELINOR.  You  can  think — arrange  some  way  to  avoid 
that. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  63 

HOOVER.  I  have  thought  of  one  way — you  won't  listen. 
If  we  can  persuade  Clayton  to  be  the  defendant,  that  set 
tles  it.  If  we  fight  him  as  you  propose,  his  anger  may 
lead  him  to  take  the  boy. 

ELINOR.     Divorce ! 

DE  LOTA.     And  no  certainty  it  can  be  kept  quiet. 

ELINOR.     You  mean  the  papers? 

DE  LOTA.  Yes.  If  Mr.  Clayton  lets  you  get  the  decree 
— only  the  Chardenet  girl  will  be  named. 

[ELINOR  rings  push  button  by  fireplace. 

HOOVER.    What  are  you  doing? 

ELINOR.     Tell  Mrs.  Seelig— 

DE  LOTA.     No — no — 

HOOVER.     Why  ? 

ELINOR.     Because  Doctor  Seelig  has  told  her  nothing. 
[Enter  HOLLAND. 

HOOVER.     One  minute. 

HOLLAND.      [Going. .]      Yes,  sir. 

ELINOR.     Holland — ask  Mrs.  Seelig  to  come  here. 

[HOLLAND  goes. 

HOOVER.    Wait  'till  Frank  decides. 

ELINOR.    I've  decided. 

HOOVER.     But  you  may  reconsider. 

DE  LOTA.     Yes — why  tell  her  now? 

ELINOR.     She  has  a  right  to  know. 

HOOVER.     What  right? 

ELINOR.  A  wife's  right — a  mother's  right.  The  right 
of  a  woman  who  has  taken  an  outcast  into  her  home. 

HOOVER.  You  were  not  an  outcast,  Elinor — you  could 
have  come  to  me. 

ELINOR.     In  your  club? 

HOOVER.     I'd  have  gone  to  a  hotel. 

DE  LOTA.  I  beg  of  you,  Elinor — wait — or  at  least  don't 
tell  everything.  My  position  in  this  house  is — peculiar. 


64  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

HOOVER.     Your  position? 

DE  LOTA.     Yes — a  tacit  engagement  to — Vedah. 

ELINOR.    Oh!     How  vile  it  all  makes  me. 

DE  LOTA.     The  more  reason  to  be  careful. 
[Enter  MRS.  SEELIG. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     My  dear? 

HOOVER.      [Cautioning.']      Elinor! 

MRS.  SEELIG/  What  is  it?     [Starts' to  ELINOR.] 

ELINOR.  Wait — [Pause.] — until  I  tell  you — [Pause.] 
— doctor  told  you  only  that  it  would  be  good  for  Dick  to 
come  here?  Nothing  more? 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Nothing. 

ELINOR.     Not — my  trouble — with  Frank? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  No — and  don't  you  tell  it,  my  dear,  if  it 
agitates  you.  Besides,  Frank  has  lots  to  worry  him.  We 
mustn't  judge  too  quickly. 

ELINOR.     He  wants  a  divorce. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    He  does? 

ELINOR.  [Nodding.]  He's  already  gone  to  a  lawyer 
about  it — father  has  just  told  me. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Because  [Looks  at  HOOVER  who  nods 
toward  DE  LOTA.]  Frank's  jealous — of  Benjamin?  [To 
ELINOR.] 

ELINOR.  I  had  no  idea  Vedah  was  engaged  to  him. 
Oh,  it's  too — too  horrible. 

MRS,  SEELIG.    What  ideas  men  can  get  in  their  heads. 

ELINOR.  No,  I'm  to  blame,  Mrs.  Seelig.  I  deserve  it  all 
— I  did  go  to  his  rooms — the  Doctor  knows. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Your  rooms — [DE  LOTA  nods.]    Together? 

DE  LOTA.    Yes. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     But,  my  dear  Elinor — 

ELINOR.  The  Doctor  believes  me — I  was  crazy — rebel 
lious — vengeful — striking  back — bitterly  resentful  of  deceit 
Frank  had  been  newly  guilty  of.  I  went  as  much  in  the 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  65 

name  of  all  women  despitefully  treated  as  I  did  in  assertion 
of  my  own  freedom.  And  then — I  came  to  my  senses.  I'm 
not  guilty  or  I  wouldn't  be  in  your  home — 

MRS.  SEELIG.    My  dear!     [Takes  ELINOR  in  her  arms.] 
[Enter  SEELIG. 

MRS.   SEELIG.      [Quietly.]      She's  just  told  me. 

SEELIG.  [To  HOOVER.]  Col.  Emery  called  on  me  this 
afternoon. 

HOOVER.    Then  you  know? 

SEELIG.    Yes. 

HOOVER.  Naturally  somewhat  of  a  shock.  [Indicates 
ELINOR.] 

SEELIG.    Yes. 

HOOVER.  We  haven't  any  right  to  expect  less  from 
Clayton. 

ELINOR.  No  right?  Did  I  divorce  him  two  years  ago 
when  he  was  guilty — really  guilty?  Did  I? 

HOOVER.  No !  You  made  a  scene  with  the  woman  and 
got  a  rotten  lot  of  newspaper  notoriety — but  the  offense 
you  condoned. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  And  a  man  that's  been  forgiven  all  that 
shouldn't  talk  about  divorce  if  his  poor  wife  loses  her  head 
for  a  minute.  It's  unbearable  the  privileges  these  men 
claim — and  the  double  standard  of  morality  they  set  up. 

SEELIG.     These  men? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  All  of  them.  And  that  woman  dramatist 
with  her  play  was  right.  It  is  "  a  man's  world." 

SEELIG.      It's  a  pretty  wise  world,  my  dear. 

ELINOR.     You  think  I  should  be  made  to  suffer? 

SEELIG.    ,1  think  you  do  suffer. 

ELINOR.  That  my  offense  is  less  forgivable  than  Frank's 
was? 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  You  have  my  pity,  Elinor,  and  shall 
have  my  help  but  I  can't  lie  to  you. 


66  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

ELINOR.     That  I'm  more  guilty  than  he? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [Pause.]  Don't  ask  that  of  a  Jew,  my 
dear — however  liberal  in  his  religion  he  pretends  to  be.  My 
father  was  an  orthodox  Rabbi — I  know. 

SEELIG.     What  do  you  know? 

MRS.  SEELIG.-  Our  ancient  law — from  which  all  your 
ideas  come.  A  man's  past  was  his  own.  He  was  not  for 
bidden  as  many  wives  as  he  wanted,  but  if  a  poor  girl  had 
made  a  mistake  and  concealed  it  from  these  lords  of  crea 
tion,  she  was  stoned  to  death  unless  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  priest — in  which  case  she  was  to  be  burnt  alive.  It's 
always  been  a  man's  world. 

SEELIG.  Elinor.  [Pause.]  Do  you  hear  that  rattle  of 
the  railroad? 

ELINOR.     Yes. 

SEELIG.  All  over  this  great  land  thousands  of  trains 
run  every  day  starting  and  arriving  in  punctual  agreement 
because  this  is  a  woman's  world.  The  great  steamships, 
dependable  almost  as  the  sun — a  million  factories  in  civili 
zation — the  countless  looms  and  lathes  of  industry — the 
legions  of  labor  that  weave  the  riches  of  the  world — all — 
all  move  by  the  mainspring  of  man's  faith  in  woman — 
man's  faith. 

ELINOR.     I  want  him  to  have  faith  in  me. 

SEELIG.     This  old  world  hangs  together  by  love. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Not  man's  love  for  woman. 

SEELIG.  No — nor  woman's  love  for  man,  but  by  the  love 
of  both — for  the  children. 

ELINOR.     Dick! 

SEELIG.  Men  work  for  the  children  because  they  believe 
the  children  are — their  own — believe.  Every  mother  knows 
she  is  the  mother  of  her  son  or  daughter.  Let  her  be  how 
ever  wicked,  no  power  on  earth  can  shake  that  knowledge. 
Every  father  believes  he  is  a  father  only  by  his  faith  in 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  67 

the  woman.  Let  him  be  however  virtuous,  no  power  on 
earth  can  strengthen  in  him  a  conviction  greater  than  that 
faith.  There  is  a  double  standard  of  morality  because  upon 
the  golden  basis  of  woman's  virtue  rests  the  welfare  of 
the  world. 

ELINOR.     Have  I — lost  everything? 

SEELIG.  Frank  must  be  convinced  of  your  love  and  your 
loyalty. 

ELINOR.     I  do  love  him. 

SEELIG.  Of  course.  [To  DE  LOTA.]  Why  are  you 
here  ? 

DE  LOTA.  To — do  anything  that  is  in  my  power — to  as 
sure  Mrs.  Clayton  that  she  will  have  my  protection  if — it 
comes  to  the  worst. 

SEELIG.    Well — that's  where  it  would  be. 

DE  LOTA.  And  there  must  be  some  things  you  want  to 
say  to  me? 

SEELIG.    There  are. 

HOOVER.  [To  SEELIG.]  Clayton's  always  had  great 
respect  for  your  opinion,  Dr.  Seelig. 

SEELIG.  I'll  see  Clayton,  of  course.  [To  MRS.  SEELIG.] 
You  'phoned  me  that  Mr.  Burrill — 

MRS.  SEELIG.     He's  there.     [Indicates  living  room.] 

SEELIG.     Have  you  seen  your  grandson,  Judge  Hoover? 

HOOVER.     No. 

ELINOR.  You  must — Dick's  asked  for  you — [Rises.] 
Come. 

SEELIG.    On  your  way  out  I'll  see  you  again. 

[HOOVER  and  ELINOR  go  out. 

SEELIG.  [To  MRS.  SEELIG.]  You  entertain  Mr.  Bur- 
rill  a  moment. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     He  doesn't  lack  entertainment. 

SEELIG.     What? 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Vedah's  with  him. 


68  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

SEELIG.      [Starting   to  door.]      I   thought   we'd   agreed 
about  that? 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Doesn't  this  trouble  make  a  difference  ? 

SEELIG.     It  can't  affect  our  decision  concerning  Burrill. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Not  before  Vedah.     [SEELIG  goes  to  living 
room.] 

DE  LOTA.    Perhaps  the  trouble  can  be  fixed,  Mrs.  Seelig 
— if  the  doctor  talks  to  Clayton. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     It  can't  be  "  fixed  "  as  you  call  it,  with 
me. 

DE  LOTA.    You  won't  tell  Vedah? 

MRS.  SEELIG.     I  won't  have  to  tell  Vedah,  she  loves  this 
artist. 

DE  LOTA.     But  to  marry  a  Christian! 

MRS.  SEELIG.    When  she  might  have  you. 

DE  LOTA.     It's  taught  me  something. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     No  doubt.    But,  I  won't  sacrifice  my  girl 
to  finish  your  education. 

[Re-enter  SEELIG  with  BURRILL. 

SEELIG.    Mr.  Burrill  is  going.    He  first  wishes  to  speak 
with  Mr.  DE  LOTA. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Why? 

SEELIG.     Sarah! 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Pardon. 

BURRILL.     A  business  matter,  Mrs.  Seelig.     If  you  are 
leaving,  Mr.  De  Lota,  I'll  walk  with  you — if  you  permit. 

DE  LOTA.     I  have  some  business  with  Dr.  Seelig. 

BURRILL.     Could  you  spare  us  a  few  minutes? 

SEELIG.    WTell?     De  Lota? 

DE  LOTA.    With  pleasure. 

SEELIG.     [Going.]     Sarah. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [In  undertone.]     You  told  him? 

[SEELIG  nods.     Goes  out  "with  MRS.  SEELIG. 

DE  LOTA.     Well? 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  69 

BURRILL.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  retire  from 
this,  Mr.  De  Lota,  without  exposure. 

DE  LOTA.    Good  of  you. 

BURRILL.  Miss  Seelig  believes  that  you  have  served  time 
in  a  penitentiary. 

DE  LOTA.     You  told  her  that? 

BURRILL.  I  hadn't  met  you  when  I  told  Miss  Seelig  that 
the  man  who  got  an  engagement  in  Antoine's  Theater  for 
Mimi  Chardenet  had  been  in  prison.  Then  you  came  into 
the  room  and  told  the  rest  yourself. 

DE  LOTA.  Miss  Seelig's  belief  is  based  on  those  two 
remarks  ? 

BURRILL.    Yes. 

DE  LOTA.    Reinforced,  I  suppose  by  your  own  opinion. 

BURRILL.     I  have  tried  to  conceal  my  opinion. 

DE  LOTA.     What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Burrill? 

BURRILL.  That  I  saw  you  sentenced  in  the  Cour  d'Assizes 
to  a  year's  imprisonment. 

DE  LOTA.    And  you  threaten  to  say  so? 

BURRILL.  I  hope  I'm  a  little  cleaner  than  that,  I  threaten 
nothing. 

DE  LOTA.    What  is  it  you're  doing? 

BURRILL.    I  foresee  trouble — I  inform  you  of  it. 

DE  LOTA.  You  mean  you  foresee  Miss  Seelig  asking  me 
a  question? 

BURRILL.  Yes !  I  foresee  your  answer  failing  to  satisfy. 
I  foresee  her  doubt  grow  deeper — I  foresee  her  going  to 
her  father  with  that  doubt. 

DE  LOTA.     And  then? 

BURRILL.  I  foresee  Doctor  Seelig  asking  what  7 
know. 

DE  LOTA.  Ah!  Now  we  have  it.  Disguised,  but  still 
the  threat.  You  tell  Doctor  Seelig  your  belief. 

BURRILL.     I  shall  decline  to  express  my  belief. 


70  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

DE  LOTA.  Same  thing,  isn't  it?  Your  reluctance  and 
your  shrugs  being  quite  as  convincing. 

BURRILL.    You  can  hardly  ask  me  to  lie  for  you. 

DE  LOTA.     Miss  Vedah  may  believe  me. 

BURRILL.  No,  she  has  asked  me  more  than  once  to  write 
to  Paris. 

DE  LOTA.  It  would  make  this  bluff  of  fair  play  very  con 
vincing  if  you  did  write  to  persons  whose  names  I  can 
furnish  you. 

BURRILL.    You  mean  arrange  a  deception. 

DE  LOTA.  I  mean  "write — show  Miss  Seelig  your  letters. 
Wait — show  her  the  answers. 

BURRILL.  You  make  it  pretty  hard  to  keep  still,  believe 
me. 

DE  LOTA.    You  think  I'm  unworthy  to  marry  this  girl. 

BURRILL.     I  know  you  are. 

DE  LOTA.  [Pause.]  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  truth 
about  that  Paris  affair. 

BURRILL.     I  don't  care  to  hear  it. 

DE  LOTA.     You  don't  want  the  truth? 

BURHILL.  I  don't  want  your  confidence.  I  won't  be 
bound  by  it. 

DE  LOTA.  You're  a  man's  man,  Burrill — you  fight  in  the 
open.  Your  part  in  this  architect's  row  shows  that.  Now, 
in  fair  play —  [Telephone  rings.] 

BURRILL.  Someone  will  come  to  answer  that.  Our  inter 
view's  at  an  end. 

DE  LOTA.  Wait.  [Goes  quickly  to  telephone  and  takes 
receiver  from  its  hook.]  They  may  not  come.  [Pause.] 
I  have  served  a  year  in  a  French  prison.  Captain  Dreyfus 
served  even  longer  for  the  same  prejudice. 

BURRILL.    Your  crime  was  proven. 

DE  LOTA.     I'm  as   good  as  you,  Mr.   Burrill,  or  any 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  71 

bachelor  that  spends  his  several  years  in  Paris.  That  im 
prisonment  was  a  decoration. 

BURRILL.     Rot! 

DE  LOTA.  I'm  not  a  male  ingenue.  Doctor  Seelig  knows 
I've  had  my  wild  oats  and  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it — 
my  sufferings  for  my  race  will  not  be  held  against  me. 
Vedah  Seelig  is  a  Jewess,  remember,  and — 

BURRILL.  Be  still,  she's  a  clean,  high-minded  girl — 
she'll  forgive  adultery  in  you  no  quicker  than  she'd  forgive 
it  anywhere. 

DE  LOTA.     You  think  so? 

BURRILL.    I  do. 

DE  LOTA.  And  that  belief  determines  you  to  bring  it  to 
her  knowledge? 

BURRILL.  It  is  already  brought  to  her  knowledge.  You 
did  that. 

DE  LOTA.  And  you  make  the  consequence  as  sinister  as 
if  it  had  been  planned? 

BURRILL.  I  won't  conspire  to  hoodwink  a  girl  into  marry 
ing  you.  [Enter  SEELIG.]  [Pause. 

SEELIG.     That  'phone  rang? 

DE  LOTA.     Yes — I  was  going  to  answer  it. 

SEELIG.  I  answered  it — on  the  branch — upstairs.  I 
heard  what  you  were  saying. 

BURRILL.     Through  that? 

SEELIG.    Yes.  [SEELIG  replaces  receiver  on  'phone. 

DE  LOTA.  I  was  telling  Mr.  Burrill  a  story — for  a 
magazine. 

SEELIG.     [To  BURRILL.]     Is  that  true? 

BURRILL.     I  can't  answer  you. 

SEELIG.     In  prison ! 

DE  LOTA.     The  man  I  was  quoting. 

SEELIG.     Why  should  a  man  in  a  story  say:   "Vedah 


72  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

Seelig  is  a  Jewess,  remember."  Why  should  Mr.  Burrill 
interrupt  you  to  defend  her? 

BURRILL.     Good  day,  Doctor.  [BURRILL  goes. 

SEELIG.     Your  confession — just  now — [Indicates  'phone.] 

DE  LOTA.  At  that  time  in  Paris,  with  public  hatred  at  a 
white  heat,  an  obsolete  law  was  dug  up  to  persecute  a 
foreigner  and  a  Jew. 

SEELIG.    What  law? 

DE  LOTA.  Imprisoning  a  man  on  the  complaint  of  a 
woman's  husband. 

SEELIG.     We  are  fortunate  to  learn  it. 

DE  LOTA.  There  are  some  Jews  I'd  expect  to  condemn 
me — apostates,  renegades,  that  join  the  wolves,  but  not  you. 
That  imprisonment  was  my  share  of  the  hatred  the  race 
sustains.  You're  big  enough  to  see  that  and  dismiss  it.  As 
for  the  offense  itself — well — you  know  men,  Doctor  Seelig. 
You're  a  physician — not  a  Rabbi. 

SEELIG.     Clayton's  home  was  not  your  first  adventure? 

DE  LOTA.     I  didn't  know  this  man  in  Paris. 

SEELIG.     You  knew  Clayton? 

DE  LOTA.     Yes. 

SEELIG.     That's  enough. 

DE  LOTA.     And  Mrs.  Clayton? 

SEELIG.     What  of  her? 

DE  LOTA.    You  brought  her  here. 

SEELIG.     Well? 

DE  LOTA.    You  excuse  her  and  condemn  me? 

SEELIG.  [Pause.']  There  is  a  cynical  maxim  that  every 
country  has  the  kind  of  Jews  it  deserves.  This  generous 
New  York  deserves  the  best.  A  Jew  has  destroyed  the 
home  of  a  benefactor,  a  Jew  intimate  in  my  own  home 
approved  by  me  and  mine.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  repair 
that  destruction. 

DE  LOTA.    There's  some  extenuation. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  73 

SEELIG.     What? 

DE  LOTA.  This  engagement  to  Vedah  is  not  the  first 
time  I  have  believed  I  was  in  love.  There  was  one  other 
— when  I  was  much  younger.  The  father  of  the  Christian 
girl  was  a  Jew-baiter. 

SEELIG.     Well? 

DE  LOTA.  I  was  thrown  over — not  because  I  wasn't  a 
man — not  because  I  hadn't  ability — nor  ambition — nor 
strength — nor  promise  of  success  but — I  was  a  Jew. 

SEELIG.  You  will  pay  that  price — the  price  of  being  a 
Jew — almost  every  day  of  your  life. 

DE  LOTA.  I  kqow — in  money — in  opportunity — in  sensi 
bilities — yes;  but  that  time  I  paid  it — with  all  those  and 
— more.  [Pause.']  Consider  then  the  temptation  when 
that  woman  who  had  thrown  me  over  and  married  her 
Christian  found  that  she  still  could  listen  to  the  Jew. 

SEELIG.      [Pause.]     This  would  be  a  proud  moment  for 
me,  Benjamin,  if  one  of  my  own  people  had  told  me  that 
story  just  as  you  have  told  it  except — that  his  revenge  had 
been  to  protect  this  Christian  woman  from  herself. 
[Noise  at  door.    CLAYTON  enters  violently. 

CLAYTON.  [To  HOLLAND  who  restrains  him.]  Don't 
put  your  hand  on  my  arm.  [Seeing  DE  LOTA.]  I  thought 
so. 

SEELIG.     [Interposing.]     Thought  what? 

CLAYTON.  I  called  you  on  the  'phone — I  heard  that 
dog's  voice. 

SEELIG.  One  moment — [To  DE  LOTA,  who  confronts 
CLAYTON]  Go.  [DE  LOTA  starts  out.] 

CLAYTON.     He  came  here  to  see  her. 

DE  LOTA.     [Angrily  returning.]     Yes.     To  see  her! 

SEELIG.     [Loudly  and  again  interposing.]     I  said  go. 

[DE  LOTA  sullenly  goes. 

CLAYTON.     And  you  stand  for  it.     Your  house. 


74  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

SEELIG.  Judge  Hoover  was  with  Mrs.  Clayton — also 
Mrs.  Seelig — then  I. 

CLAYTON.    And  my  boy.    Where  was  Dick? 

SEELIG.     In  his  room. 

CLAYTON.  Well,  I  want  him.  He  shan't  be  corrupted  by 
their  damned  assignations. 

SEELIG.     His  first  call,  Frank,  and  his  last. 

CLAYTON.     That  part  of  it  doesn't  interest  me. 

SEELIG.    And  your  threatened  divorce  was  the  reason. 

CLAYTON.  I  thought  they'd  get  together  on  that.  Well 
— I  want  Dick.  [Pause.']  Send  for  him,  please. 

SEELIG.  In  a  minute.  He'll  be  glad  to  see  you — but  you 
mustn't  say  anything  before  him  you'll  regret. 

CLAYTON.     I  promise.     I  just  want  him,  that's  all. 

SEELIG.    He's  with  his  mother,  you  know. 

CLAYTON.    Well? 

SEELIG.     And  Judge  Hoover  is  also  with  Elinor. 

CLAYTON.     What  of  it?' 

SEELIG.  Nothing — except — well,  the  boy.  There 
mustn't  be  a  dispute,  Frank. 

CLAYTON.    Say  that  to  them. 

SEELIG.  And  you  can't  treat  Mrc.  Clayton  as  though 
she  were  a  guilty  woman. 

CLAYTON.     Why  can't  I? 

SEELIG.     Because  in  the  first  place  she  isn't  guilty. 

CLAYTON.    Isn't? 

SEELIG.    No. 

CLAYTON.     She  fools  you,  Seelig. 

SEELIG.  The  physician  who  takes  a  woman  through  the 
sacred  crises  of  her  life — mental  as  well  as  physical — can't 
be  deceived,  Frank,  and  in  the  second  place  you  have  for 
feited  the  right  to  judge  her — you  came  into  court  yourself 
unclean. 

CLAYTON.     And  therefore  can't  resent  adultery. 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  75 

SEELIG.  Her  defiant  visit  to  De  Lota's  rooms  wasn't 
adultery. 

CLAYTON.  Damnation !  when  a  woman's  gone  that  far, 
the  specific  degrees  of  her  behavior  aren't  important. 

SEELIG.  They're  very  important,  especially  when  they 
show  recovery.  A  woman  who  stops  at  the  edge  of  the 
precipice  instead  of  taking  the  headlong  plunge,  mustn't 
be  thrown  into  the  gulf — and  that  by  the  man  she  herself 
had  already  rescued — by  the  man  whose  brutality  forced 
her  into  the  peril. 

CLAYTON.    Brutality ! 

SEELIG.  A  word  ill  chosen — I  meant  bestiality — who  are 
you  to  pass  sentence  upon  her? 

CLAYTON.    Unfortunately  the  man  who  married  her. 

SEELIG.  Why!  Dismiss  the  moral  view  of  marriage. 
Consider  it  only  as  our  modern  and  manly  and  commercial 
mind  is  organized  to  consider  it — a  civil  covenant — no  more. 

CLAYTON.     What  then? 

SEELIG.  Why,  even  then  your  position  is  that  of  a  thief 
— a  confessed  embezzler — complaining  in  his  hypocrisy  of 
what? — that  his  partner's  books  appear  inaccurate.  That 
is  the  proportion.  On  the  sacred  side  of  the  relation  you 
are  doubly  guilty — guilty  of  your  immoral  conduct — guilty 
of  your  base  example  and  guilty  of  goading  a  good  woman 
into  desperate  things.  For  God's  sake,  Frank  Clayton, 
cleanse  your  mind  of  its  masculine  conceit,  prejudice,  self 
ishness  and  partiality — recognize  your  own  destructive  work 
— admit  it — regret  it,  undo  it,  and  ask  a  good  woman's  for 
giveness.  [CLAYTON  laughs  ironically. 
[HOOVER  and  ELINOR  enter.  Her  appearance  stills  CLAY 
TON,  as  he  turns  and  sees  her. 

ELINOR.     Frank?     [Extends  her  hand  pleadingly.] 

CLAYTON.     Well? 

ELINOR.     I'm  in  the  dust — forgive  me. 


76  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

SEELIG.     [In  undertone.]     Judge — 

[Starts  out,  HOOVER  following. 

CLAYTON.  [Checking  them.]  No — none  of  that.  Let's 
not  contrive  any  interview  of  repentance. 

ELINOR.  You — you're  not  going  to  drag  the — the  whole 
story  into  the  courts. 

CLAYTON.  I'm  going  to — [Pause.]  do  only  what  is 
necessary. 

ELINOR.  [Sits — speaks  with  effort  at  control.]  As  we 
forgive — those  that  trespass  against  us — 

CLAYTON.  It's  too  late  to  adjust  matters  with  a  few 
appropriate  quotations. 

HOOVER.  You  won't  waive  any  right  by  a  reasonable 
delay. 

SEELIG.  None — so  for  pity's  sake,  Frank,  tell  Colonel 
Emory  to  wait. 

CLAYTON.  I've  retained  my  own  counsel — I  don't  ask 
other  advice. 

ELINOR.  [Brokenly.]  Why — why  do  you  come  to  see 
me? 

CLAYTON.  I  don't!  I  came  because  your  friend  Mr. 
De  Lota  was  here  with  you. 

ELINOR.     Frank! 

HOOVER.     I  brought  De  Lota. 

CLAYTON.  [Explosively.]  I  don't  object.  [Then  with 
fateful  control.]  I'm  just  going  to  take  Dick  out  of  the 
muck,  that's  all. 

ELINOR.    Dick! 

HOOVER.  [Bristling.]  The  law  prescribes  the  only  way 
that— 

ELINOR.  [Quickly  interposing.]  Father — don't — don't. 
We  mustn't  talk  of  law  and  its  wrangle  over  Dick.  Frank's 
perfectly  right.  If  I  were  meeting  Mr.  De  Lota  after  the 
terrible  mistake  of  that  night  Dick  shouldn't  be  in  my 


Act  III]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  77 

care  at  all.  [Turns  to  CLAYTON.]  It — it  was  on  account 
of  the  suit — that's  all.  If  you  let  Colonel  Emory  do  that 
cruel  thing  without  believing  me.  Father  brought  him — 
Dick  wasn't  here.  I  said  that  I  wouldn't  bring  up  my 
jealousy  of  that  woman  in  Paris — nothing  to  blacken  the 
name  of  Dick's  father — didn't  I?  [Turns  to  HOOVER.] 

HOOVER.     She  did. 

ELINOR.  [Again  to  CLAYTON.]  You  must  see  Dick — 
but  leave  him  here,  Frank,  until  you  know  the  very  truth 
— about — it  all.  You  get  him,  father — 

HOOVER.  [Going.]  Of  course.  I've  seen  fifty  cases  that 
looked  worse  than  this  smoothed  out  by  a  little  patience. 

ELINOR.     [Anxiously .]     Get  Dick. 

CLAYTON.     You  saw  De  Lota? 

ELINOR.     With  father. 

HOOVER.  [Turning.']  De  Lota's  statement  to  me,  Frank, 
was  identical  with  Elinor's. 

CLAYTON.     Never  mind. 

HOOVER.  [Coming  back.]  I've  got  to  mind — you're  not 
informed.  Elinor  and  De  Lota  were  friends  before  you 
ever  came  to  New  York.  [ELINOR  tries  to  silence  HOOVER.] 

CLAYTON.     Friends? 

ELINOR.  [Pause,  and  as  CLAYTON  glares  at  her.]  Yes. 
[To  HOOVER.]  Get  Dick.  Go — don't  say  any  more. 

[HOOVER  goes. 

CLAYTON.  [Accusingly.]  I  introduced  De  Lota  to  you 
only  a  year  ago. 

ELINOR.     I  know,  but — 

CLAYTON.    Why  pretend  you  were  not  acquainted? 

ELINOR.     I — I  was  considering  his  feelings. 

CLAYTON.    What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

ELINOR.     Before  I  knew  you — we  were  engaged. 

CLAYTON.    Engaged! 

ELINOR.     He  and  I.     Father  objected  on  account  of  De 


78  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  III 

Lota's  race — and — Father  forbade  me  ever  to  speak  of  it 
in  his  hearing.  When  you  and  I  met  I  was  still  over 
sensitive  about  it  and — 

CLAYTON.  [Furiously.]  No,  by  God!  It  won't  do. 
You  can't  square  it.  I  see  it  now.  I've  been  a  dupe  for 
years  and  years. 

ELINOR.  I  never  saw  him  again  until  you  brought  him 
home. 

CLAYTON.    Don't,  I'm  through  with  it.     [Going.'] 

ELINOR.     Frank — don't  go— wait !    See  Dick! 

CLAYTON.      [Turning.]     Dick. 

ELINOR.     You  must  see  your  boy. 

CLAYTON.     My  boy !     How  do  I  know  he's  my  boy  ? 

[ELINOR  and  SEELIG  both  exclaim. 

ELINOR.     Oh! 

SEELIG.     Frank! 

CLAYTON.  You've  lived  a  lie  about  that  blackguard  all 
along  until  I  trap  you  in  his  room. 

ELINOR.  But  Dick — our  baby  Dick.  For  God's  sake, 
Frank,  don't  say  a  thing  like  that. 

CLAYTON.  Why  not,  if  it's  here — here — [Striking  fore 
head.]  And  hell  itself  can't  burn  it  out. 

SEELIG.      [At  the  door.]      Frank — it's  the  boy. 

CLAYTON.     No — no ! 

[Turns  and  goes  rapidly  out  by  the  other  door. 
[Enter  DICK. 

ELINOR.  [To  SEELIG.]  What  have  I  done?  I  didn't 
know — I  didn't  know. 

DICK.     [To  ELINOR.]     Where's  Papa? 

ELINOR.  [With  a  heartbroken  cry.]  Ah!  [Kneels  and 
takes  DICK  in  her  arms.]  My  boy — my  boy — [Brushes 
back  his  hair.]  Our  baby — boy.  [Kisses  and  embraces 
him  hysterically,  sobbing.] 

Curtain. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  79 

ACT  IV 

[SCENE :  Same  as  Act  II,  the  Lounging  Room  at  Clayton's. 
A  large  couch  is  drawn  up  in  front  of  fire.  The  room 
is  lighted  only  by  the  lamp  on  the  small  table  and 
a  candlelabrum  near  the  telephone.  The  pictures  on 
the  wall  are  awry,  and  there  is  a  look  of  general  deso 
lation  about  the  place.  A  window  is  open  at  left  side 
of  room  and  the  sound  of  church  bells  comes  in. 

DISCOVERED:  CLAYTON  on  couch  near  fire — steamer 
rug  over  him — he  in  dressing  gown  and  slippers.  His 
shoes  are  on  floor.] 

[Enter  SUTTON  from  dining  room  carrying  tray. 

SUTTON.     I  beg  pardon,  sir. 

CLAYTON.     Well? 

SUTTON.  I've  a  bowl  of  bouillon  and  some  toast — I 
thought  maybe  you'd  try  it,  sir. 

CLAYTON.     [Indifferently.]     Thank  you,  Sutton. 

SUTTON.  [Putting  tray  on  table  at  head  of  the  couch.] 
Shall  I  put  it  nearer?  [CLAYTON  shakes  head.]  If  you'd 
rather  have  a  milk  punch,  sir  ? 

CLAYTON.     No. 

SUTTON.     Or  an  egg-nogg — [CLAYTON  shakes  head.] 

CLAYTON.     You  might  shut  that  window. 

SUTTON.     Yes,  sir.     [Going  to  the  window.] 

CLAYTON.    Those  damn  bells — 

SUTTON.    Yes,  sir.     [Closes  window.] 

CLAYTON.    When  did  Doctor  Seelig  say  he'd  come? 

SUTTON.     As  soon  as  possible. 

CLAYTON.     And   it's   been  three   hours. 

SUTTON.  Nearly  three  hours,  yes,  sir.  There's  the  door 
— may  be  Doctor  now.  [Goes  to  hall.] 


80  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

[CLAYTON  re-arranges  pillow  and  lies  down  again. 
[HOOVER'S  voice  is  heard  outside. 

SUTTON.  [Also  outside.]  He's  lying  down — in  the 
smoking  room. 

[Enter  SUTTON. 

[HOOVER  and  ELINOR  appear  in  hallway. 

SUTTON.  [Leaning  over  the  back  of  the  couch.]  Pardon, 
sir — Judge  Hoover! 

CLAYTON.     [Shaking  head.]     No — 

SUTTON.    And  Mrs.  Clayton,  sir. 

CLAYTON.     [Sitting  up.]     Here? 

HOCVER.  [Entering.]  I  don't  want  to  intrude,  Frank, 
but — it  seems  necessary.  Come  in,  Elinor! 

[SUTTON  goes.      ELINOR  comes  down  to  the 
couch. 

CLAYTON.  You'll  have  to  see  my  attorney.  I'm  not  able 
to  talk  any  business. 

ELINOR.     [Tenderly.]     You're  ill,  Frank? 

CLAYTON.      [Coldly.]      Resting  a  minute — 

ELINOR.  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but — it's  for  Dick. 
[Pause.]  [CLAYTON  motions  slightly  to  a  chair  which 
HOOVER  places — ELINOR  sits.]  You  know  that  to-morrow 
is — a  holiday?  [CLAYTON  nods.]  Dick's  eager  about  it — 

CLAYTON.  [Complainingly  to  HOOVER.]  This  isn't 
necessary,  is  it? 

ELINOR.  Dick's  talked  for  days  about  his  tree  and 
hanging  up  his  stocking  by  the  big  fireplace  at  home.  Our 
difference,  Frank,  mustn't  put  a  blight  on  the  boy's 
Christmas. 

CLAYTON.     [In  undertone.]     My  God!     What  drivel ! 

ELINOR.  Drivel  when  I  repeat  it — if  you  will — but  net 
as  little  Dick  talks  it  day  after  day.  His  love  for  you 
isn't  drivel. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  81 

CLAYTON.  [To  HOOVER.]  You  promised  Emory  to 
begin  suit  if  I'd  keep  quiet. 

HOOVER.     Yes. 

CLAYTON.     Nearly  a  month  ago. 

HOOVER.     I  know — but — [Turns  to  ELINOR.] 

ELINOR.  7  refuse.  There's  nothing  left  me  to  live  for 
but  my  baby  and  his  happiness.  I  won't — I  won't  bring 
an  accusation  against  his  father — [CLAYTON  moves  away 
wearily  to  mantel — ELINOR  rises.]  You  are  his  father 
and  only  your  wish  to  crush  me  makes  you  pretend  to  doubt 
it.  I've  forfeited  your  love,  I  know — I'm  not  here  to  plead 
against  that — but  to  avoid  any  scar  I  can  for  the  boy's 
heart.  I  want  you  to  let  Dick  come  here  to-morrow — 
[CLAYTON  moves  impatiently.']  Not  with  me — with  Miss 
Doane.  I  want  you  to  see  him — and  take  him  in  your 
arms —  » 

CLAYTON.      [Shakes  head.]      No — 

HOOVER.  [With  some  indignation.]  Whatever  he  is — 
he's  a  child,  and  for  seven  years  this  was  his  home. 

CLAYTON.  There'll  be  other  anniversaries.  He  may  as 
well  learn  now. 

ELINOR.  No — not  now.  When  he's  old  enough  to  under 
stand  I'll  tell  him — the  truth. 

CLAYTON.     What  is  the  truth? 

ELINOR.  That  his  mother — was  a  foolish  woman  who 
thought  her  husband  didn't  understand  her.  That  his 
father  punished  her  out  of  all  proportion  to  her  offense,  but 
only  as  women  must  expect  punishment. 

CLAYTON.     [Sneering.]    I  know — because  men  are  brutes. 

ELINOR.  Because — God  has  put  into  woman's  keeping 
a  trust — of  which  no  one — neither  husbands  nor  fathers 
tell  them  truly — about  which  the  world  in  its  vain  disputes 
of  equality  misleads  them — of  which  they  learn  only  through 
their  own  suffering. 


82  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

CLAYTON.  [Leaving  ELINOR  and  going  to  HOOVER.] 
This  kind  of  thing  is — what  I  try  to  escape. 

ELINOR.  [Following.]  Let  Dick  spend  his  Christmas 
morning  here.  [CLAYTON  shakes  head.']  You  used  to  ask 
after  him  every  day  until  you  took  this  cruel  pose  of  pre 
tending  that  he's  not  your  boy. 

CLAYTON.      [To  HOOVER.]      Please — 

ELINOR.  I  couldn't  tell  you  in  Doctor  Seelig's  presence 
plainly  enough.  You  know  Father's  insane  antipathy  to — 
[Pause.]  to  those  people.  Any  word — the  most  sacred — 
any  name — the  most  honored — by  scornful  repetition  be 
comes  a  reproach^  and  I  had  grown  fearful  of  ridicule 
about  my  former  friendship  for — Ben  De  Lota.  That  was 
my  sole  reason  for  silence. 

CLAYTON.     [Wearily.]     My  God! 

HOOVER.     Elinor,  Frank!      [Indicates  hall.] 

BURRILL.  [Outside.]     Is  he  too  ill  to  be  seen  a  moment? 

HOOVER.  [Peering  cautiously  into  hall.]  Woman,  too. 
[Enter  SUTTON. 

SUTTON.     Mr.  Burrill,  sir. 

CLAYTON.     I  said  no  one  but  Doctor  Seelig. 

SUTTON.  Miss  Seelig,  Doctor's  daughter,  is  with  Mr. 
Burrili. 

ELINOR.  Father!  [Going  quickly  out  by  dining  room 
door.] 

HOOVER.  [Following.]  I  want  a  word,  Frank,  when 
they're  gone. 

CLAYTON.    But  not  with  her. 

HOOVER.     No — she'll  go.  [HOOVER  leaves. 

CLAYTON.  My  coat!     [SUTTON  gets  CLAYTON'S  coat  and 

waistcoat  from  the  table — CLAYTON  takes  them  and  nods 

for  SUTTON  to  go.]  [SUTTON  goes. 

[CLAYTON     feebly     unbuttons     his     dressing 

gown,   pauses,   wearily   throws   coat   and 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  83 

waistcoat  to  a  chair  from  which  they  slip 
to  the  floor.  CLAYTON  sits  on  the  couch. 
[BURRILL  and  VEDAH  enter. 

BURRILL.     Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mr.  Clayton. 

VEDAH.     And  your  man  says  you're  not  well. 

CLAYTON.  Nothing!  Won't  you  be  seated?  [VEDAH 
takes  chair  BURRILL  places  for  her.] 

BURRILL.  I'm — [Pause.]  That  is,  we're — well,  I 
wanted  to  thank  you  for  my  contract  on  the  court-house 
sculpture. 

CLAYTON.     They  gave  it  to  you,  did  they?  „ 

BURRILL.  Yes.  The  finished  marble  must  be  up  in  a 
year.  Material — workmen — studio — everything's  cheaper 
on  the  other  side — 

CLAYTON.     I  know. 

BURRILL.  So  I'm  sailing  day  after  to-morrow — unless 
you  need  me  here  in  the  architect's  libel  suit! 

CLAYTON.    They've  withdrawn  that. 

BURRILL.  They  have?  [CLAYTON  nods.  BURRILL  turns 
eagerly  to  VEDAH.]  Then  we  go — 

VEDAH.     Yes ! 

BURRILL.    Vedah  and  I  have  been  married. 

CLAYTON.     Married? 

BURRILL.     Half  an  hour  ago. 

VEDAH.  Yes.     [Rises  and  stands  by  BURRILL.] 

BURRILL.  [Taking  VEDAH'S  hand.]  I'm  the  happiest 
man  alive. 

CLAYTON.  [Moodily.]  Half  an  hour?  Ah,  yes.  [With 
an  effort  rises  and  goes  to  them.]  Well,  I  congratulate 
you  both. 

VEDAH.  Papa  and  Mama  don't  know  it  yet.  [BURRILL 
goes  to  the  f  replace.] 

CLAYTON.     An  elopement? 

VEDAH.     Is  it?     If  we  didn't  leave  the  city? 


84  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

[Enter  SUTTON. 

SUTTON.     Mrs.  Seelig,  sir. 

[VEDAH  anxiously  goes  to  BURRILL. 
[Enter  MRS.  SEELIG. 

[SUTTON  goes  out. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Vedah.  [Sees  BURRILL.]  You  know  your 
father's  wishes. 

BURRILL.     We've  been  married,  Mrs.  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Vedah! 

VEDAH.     Yes,  Mama. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     When? 

VEDAH.     At  five  o'clock. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    How?     Who  married  you? 

BURRILL.     A  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

MRS.  SEELIG.    Frank!     [Turns  to  CLAYTON.] 

VEDAH.  [Going  to  her  mother.']  Remember  your  par 
ents  objected  to  Papa. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [To  CLAYTON.]  My  father  was  a  Rabbi 
— Doctor  Seelig's  ideas  were  advanced — even  his  own 
people  thought  so. 

VEDAH.    No  couple  could  be  happier  than  you  have  been. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Is  this  happiness — my  only  daughter  runs 
away — why?  To-day?  Why  secretly? 

BURRILL.     I'm  sailing  for  Paris. 

VEDAH.     [Returning  to  BURRILL.]     To  be  gone  a  year. 

BURRILL.     The  separation  was  impossible. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Couldn't  you  have  trusted  Vedah  that 
long? 

VEDAH.     It  was  I,  Mama. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     You? 

VEDAH.     To  risk  a  sculptor  in  Paris?     Oh  no! 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Well,  go  home  and  tell  your  poor  father. 

VEDAH.     I  want  you  with  us,  Mama. 

BURRILL.     I'm  willing  to  tell  the  Doctor  alone. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  85 

VEDAH.      [In  alarm.]      No. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Very  well,  wait  for  me  and  we'll  meet 
Papa  together. 

VEDAH.     [To  CLAYTON.]     Good-bye! 

[They  shake  hands. 

CLAYTON.  Good-bye.  [Shakes  hands  with  BURRILL.] 
Bon  voyage. 

BURRILL.     Thank  you.     [Starts  out  with  VEDAH.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [Impulsively.']  Vedah!  [VEDAH  turns, 
MRS.  SEELIG  embraces  and  kisses  her.'] 

BURRILL.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Seelig.  [Goes  out  with 
VEDAH.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.  [Sighing  and  turning  to  CLAYTON  who  is 
at  the  fireplace.]  I  left  Elinor — waiting  for  Judge  Hoover. 
When  I  go  back  I  want  to  carry  her  some  comfort. 

CLAYTON.    Your  arrival  will  do  that,  Mrs.  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  I  hope  so.  This  is  Christmas  Eve,  you 
know. 

CLAYTON.     Yes. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  Little  Dick  has  always  found  his  stocking 
— in  there.  [Indicates  the  music  room.] 

CLAYTON.  Mrs.  Clayton  mustn't  use  Dick  to  break  down 
my  decision. 

MRS.  SEELIG.  I  bought  a  little  tree — [Indicates  its 
height.]  I  caught  the  Christian  shopkeeper  smiling — but 
no  matter.  I  had  Sutton  take  it  in  at  the  tradesman's  en 
trance.  [CLAYTON  turns  away.]  I  know.  You  think  that 
is  more  indelicacy  characteristic  of  the  race — but  Vedah  is 
going  with  that  young  man — my  own  heart  is  alive  to  the 
suffering  around  us.  Yours? — yes !  it  comes  soon  enough  to 
us  all — but  Frank! — that  little  boy  who  is — 

CLAYTON.  Please !  Mrs.  Seelig,  the  doctor's  ordered  me 
to  avoid  all  excitement.  [Sits  wearily  on  couch.] 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [Sympathetically.]     He  didn't  tell  us. 


£6  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

CLAYTON.     Not  Doctor  Seelig. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Oh! 

CLAYTON.    A  specialist — but  he  doesn't  help  me.     Sutton 
^phoned  and  I'm  waiting  for  Doctor  Seelig  now. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Now?     I  can't  meet  him  here.     But  that 
tree's  in  the  house  and  you  must  let  us  bring  Dick  over. 
[Enter  HOOVER. 

HOOVER.     Pardon. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     I'm  going — Good  night.  [She  goes. 

CLAYTON.     [Pause.]     Where  is — ? 

HOOVER.  Elinor?  [CLAYTON  nods.]  She  left  immedi- 
•ately.  [CLAYTON  lies  down  on  couch.']  She's — not — a  bad 
woman,  Frank !  What  she  said  about  my  opposition  was 
true — but  we  all  learn.  I  didn't  know  the  hearts  those 
people  had  in  'em — [Pause.]  And  her  girlish  affair  with 
De  Lota  was — well,  you  know  Elinor's  craze  for  music. 
That's  the  explanation — attraction  was  mostly  artistic. 
[Enter  SUTTON. 

.SUTTON.     Doctor  Seelig. 

CLAYTON.     You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Judge. 

HOOVER.    Sorry  to  see  you — ill,  old  man. 
[Enter  SEELIG. 

SEELIG.     Good  evening. 

HOOVER.    Good  evening,  Doctor.     [Going,  extends  hand.] 
I  wish  you — [Pause.]  the  compliments  of  the  season. 

SEELIG.     The  same  to  you,  Judge. 

[HOOVER  goes.]     [SUTTON  takes  SEELIG'S  hat 
and  coat. 

SEELIG.    Well,  Frank — under  the  weather?     [Leans  over 
back  of  couch.] 

CLAYTON.     Pretty  rotten. 

SEELIG.     Need  a  little  air  in  here. 

CLAYTON.     I  couldn't  stand  the  damned  bells. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  8T 

SEELIG.     Better  stand  them  a  minute. 

[Opens  window.     The  sound  of  church  belly 

is  heard. 

CLAYTON.     "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 
SEELIG.     How  long  have  you  been  this  way?      [Taking* 
CLAYTON'S  pulse.] 

CLAYTON.     Been  here — since  last  night. 
SEELIG.     Drinking? 
CLAYTON.     Very  little. 
SEELIG.     Pain  anywhere? 

CLAYTON.    Some — back  of  my  neck  near  the  shoulders. 
SEELIG.    Headache?     [CLAYTON  shakes  head.]     No  other 
pains?      [CLAYTON  shakes  head.]      What  kept  you  in  the 
house? 

CLAYTON.  I  feel  all  in — rotten  tired. 
SEELIG.  I'd  have  come  earlier,  Frank,  but  a  long  list. 
Then  there  was  an  accident  to  a  little  chap  on  Third  Ave 
nue — they  brought  him  to  the  hospital — smaller  than  your 
boy.  We  operate  on  him  at  eight-thirty.  [Regards  watch.] 
When  I  got  away  from  that  the  police  stopped  us  at  every 
cross  street.  Wonderful  sight  on  the  Avenue — people 
seem  to  have  money.  I  think  a  prosperity  Christmas. 

[Picks  up  the  coat  and  waistcoat  from  the 
floor — folds  them.  Straightens  pictures 
on  wall. 

CLAYTON.      Can't    we   have    that    window    closed    now? 
[Pause — SEELIG  closes  the  window,  shutting  out  the  sound 
of  the  bells.]     Ha!     "  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy." 
SEELIG.     Comes  only  once  a  year. 

CLAYTON.      You   any   respect   for   the   whole   business — 
that  Christ  fabrication? 

SEELIG.      [Going  to  fireplace.]      You  mean  the  Church 
idea — the  creeds  ? 
CLAYTON.     Yes. 


88  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  I've  outgrown  the  one  my  own  mother 
started  me  in,  but  I  take  off  my  hat  to  the  man. 

CLAYTON.    Why! 

SEELIG.     Oh,  He  knew — He'd  worked  it  all  out. 

CLAYTON.     Worked  what  out? 

SEELIG.  This  thing  we  call  Life.  He  knew  the  essence 
of  it. 

CLAYTON.     I  don't  see  that. 

SEELIG.  "  As  a  man  thinketh  " — that  was  His  answer. 

CLAYTON.     What  does  that  answer? 

SEELIG.  Everything.  When  I  felt  your  pulse  there  and 
let  go  your  hand  you  carried  it  back  to  the  couch — so. 

CLAYTON.    Expect  me  to  keep  it  out  there  like  a  hat-rack? 

SEELIG.    I'd  hoped  you  would  drop  it  a  little. 

CLAYTON.    Why? 

SEELIG.  Hoped  you'd  relax.  Let's  try  it  now.  [Lifts 
CLAYTON'S  hand.]  Don't  tense  those  muscles — put  your 
weight  on  me.  [Drops  hand.]  There! 

CLAYTON.     Well,  what  does  that  do? 

SEELIG.  That's  the  only  part  of  your  body  that's  relaxed 
—Now  a  deep  breath  and  let  go.  Don't  hold  yourself  up 
from  the  couch.  So!  [CLAYTON  does  as  told  and  percepti 
bly  relaxes.] 

CLAYTON.    Nerves,  I  know. 

SEELIG.  [Tapping  his  own  forehead.]  It's  this.  Why, 
I  have  patients — business  men — who  are  always  tied  up 
like  a  wet  fishing  line — sleep  that  way.  Do  you  know  why 
that  wrinkle  is  between  your  eyes? 

CLAYTON.     I'm  sick,  that's  why. 

SEELIG.  Because  the  wrinkle's  in  your  mind.  That  coat 
I  took  from  the  floor  said  mental  wrinkles,  "  As  a  man 
thinketh,"  my  dear  Frank.  [Pause.]  What  is  it  now — 
come  ? 

CLAYTON.     You  don't  have  to  ask,  do  you? 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  89 

SEELIG.     I  do  ask. 

CLAYTON.    Just  to  keep  my  mind  on  it,  I  suppose? 

SEELIG.     No — I  want  to  hear  you  talk  about  it. 

CLAYTON.  My  mind  will  be  all  right,  I'll  be  all  right, 
when  that  damned  dog  is  dead  in  hell ! 

SEELIG.  [Paused]  You  hate  him  pretty  bitterly,  don't 
you? 

CLAYTON.     I  hate  him  the  best  I  know  how. 

SEELIG.     You  know  what  good  hating  does  to  the  hater? 

CLAYTON.     You  mean  to  me? 

SEELIG.     [Nodding.]     To  everybody.     Kills  him. 

CLAYTON.    Kills  him?  [SEELIG  nods. 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  Hate  generates  one  of  the  deadliest 
poisons  in  nature.  I've  had  trouble  in  my  time  saving  a 
baby  that  had  nursed  milk  from  the  breast  of  an  angry 
woman.  You've  heard  of  the  bite  of  a  blue  gum  negro  being 
poison. 

CLAYTON.     Knew  a  man  who  lost  his  thumb  that  way. 

SEELIG.  Well,  it  is  no  more  poisonous  than  the  bite  of  a 
red  gum  negro,  or  the  bite  of  a  red  gum  white  man,  if 
either  of  them  gets  angry  enough,  the  blue  gum  negro  is 
just  a  little  nearer  the  animal  and  gets  mad  quicker,  that's 
all.  Now,  you  lie  here  with  this  grouch  of  yours  and  you 
generate  constantly  an  internal  poison.  I  haven't  any  medi 
cines  that  can  beat  that. 

CLAYTON.  When  I  get  so  much  of  it  in  me  that  I  shoot 
that  cur,  as  I  shall  some  day,  they'll  call  it  murder. 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  I  used  to  get  pretty  angry  when  I 
was  younger,  but  I  think  it  was  more  to  show  off. 

CLAYTON.     You  mean  I  do  this  to  "  show  off !  " 

SEELIG.  I  mean  you  are  influenced  by  public  opinion. 
If  you  and  he  were  the  only  creatures  left  in  the  world 
you'd  admit  he  didn't  do  much  more  than  you'd  have  done 
in  his  place. 


90  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

CLAYTON.  You  mean  I'd  go  into  another  man's  home 
and  ruin  it? 

SEELIG.  This  man  didn't  come  into  your  home  and  ruin 
it.  He  meets  an  old  sweetheart,  meets  her  when  she  thinks 
she  is  being  neglected. 

CLAYTON.  [Sitting  up.~\  Neglected?  Why,  she  had 
this  house  and  our  summer  place  at  Newport — a  forty-live 
horse-power  limousine — she  had — 

SEELIG.  See  here,  Frank,  you  were  neglecting  her.  He 
did  what  nine  men  out  of  ten  would  do.  He  knows  the  price 
that's  being  paid,  and  I  know,  that  he'd  walk  around  the 
Belt  Line  to-night  in  the  snow,  barefooted,  to  have  the 
record  closed. 

CLAYTON.  Suppose  you  think  I  ought  to  hunt  him  up 
and  shake  hands  with  him? 

SEELIG.  No — don't  think  you  should  ever  see  him  again, 
even  mentally;  but  it  doesn't  need  murder  to  acquire  that 
attitude.  I  want  you  to  be  big  enough  to  dismiss  it.  That's 
why  I  quote  this  carpenter-prophet  of  Nazareth — a  truth 
that  took  me  a  post-graduate  course  to  learn  and  twenty- 
five  years  to  demonstrate — He  found  out  by  himself.  He 
said  in  one  of  his  first  sermons:  "Forgive,  and  ye  shall  be 
forgiven ;  give  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you,  good  measure 
pressed  down,  shaken  together  and  running  over  shall  men 
give  unto  your  bosom." 

CLAYTON.     Oh  that  religious  elation — 

SEELIG.  It  wasn't  religion  He  was  preaching,  but  a 
good  working  rule  of  life.  This  precept  of  good-will — 
people  regard  the  words  "  Good-will  "  as  interchangeable 
with  "  Peace,"  but  will  is  active,  good-will  is  a  constructive 
force.  I've  seen  sick  people  get  well  merely  through  two 
or  three  hearty  good  wishers  rooting  for  them.  I've  figured 
it  out  that  there's  an  influence  circulating  through  all 
men  when  they'll  permit  it,  just  as  the  current  through 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  91 

that  lamp  goes  through  all  other  lamps  in  this  house. 
Stop  it  in  the  man  by  avarice  or  cupidity,  divert  it  by 
envy,  turn  it  back  by  hate,  and  something  goes  wrong 
with  the  machinery.  "  Give  and  it  shall  be  given  unto 
you." 

CLAYTON.     You  take  Him  too  literally,  Doctor. 

SEELIG.  The  mistake  is  not  taking  Him  literally  enough. 
I've  cured  many  taking  that  sermon  literally.  [Sits  beside 
CLAYTON  on  his  couch.']  I  find  what  is  on  the  patient's 
mind.  Generally  some  hate  or  fear — sometimes  regret  or 
remorse — then  I  try  to  show  the  patient  that  yesterday  is 
yesterday,  that  his  past  life  doesn't  concern  him  any  more 
than  last  year's  snow.  If  I  can  get  a  man  looking  ahead — 
hopeful — anxious  to  get  on  the  job — why  he's  cured. 

CLAYTON.  [Doggedly.]  I'll  look  ahead  when  I  get  even 
with  this  fellow. 

SEELIG.  Well,  say  you've  got  even — that  you've  dealt 
him  some  deadly  blow,  irreparably  injured  him  or  his  hap 
piness  !  What  then  ?  My  dear  Frank,  there  is  nothing 
so  disappointing  as  a  satisfied  revenge. 

CLAYTON.     I  can't  forget  it. 

SEELIG.     Yes  you  can. 

CLAYTON.  It's  here  on  my  mind.  [Covers  his  eyes  and 
forehead.] 

SEELIG.  Because  your  mind  is  empty.  Work  is  the 
answer  to  your  condition. 

CLAYTON.     [Shaking  his  head.]     Too  late  for  that  now. 

SEELIG.  Nonsense !  Take  this  parable  of  the  eleventh 
hour.  The  men  in  that  were  kicking  because  those  who- 
had  worked  one  hour  got  as  much  as  those  who  had  put  in 
a  full  day.  Remember  what  the  Nazarene  proposed  to  pay, 

CLAYTON.    What? 

SEELIG.  Peace  of  mind.  A  sharehold  in  what  He  called 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  The  eleventh  hour  men  worked 


92  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

only  one  hour,  but  they  worked — the  last  hour.  You  get 
that  peace  of  mind,  whenever — you  work,  whenever  you  do 
something — and  the  splendid  thing  is,  it's  never  too  late  to 
do  it.  [Rises  vigorously — stands  at  mantel.'] 

CLAYTON.  [Wearily.']  Good  God,  Doctor,  a  man  can't 
get  up  and  work  at  something  he  doesn't  care  for  in  order 
to  forget  something  he's  thinking  of  all  the  time.  It's  well 
enough  for  you — always  called  in  by  some  poor  devil  who 
thinks  you  can  help  him.  Give  me  your  job  and  your 
equipment  for  it  and  I'll  talk  hope  and  clean  living  myself. 

SEELIG.  [Half  sadly.~\  I  know  that  attitude.  It's  al 
ways  the  next  pasture  that  seems  the  greenest.  If  I  have 
any  regret  it  is  that  instead  of  being  a  physician  I  wasn't 
a  priest.  61  think  most  diseases  are  not  physical  so  much 
as  they  are  mental  or  spiritual.) 

CLAYTON.     Well,  I'd  like  to  do  that  kind  of  thing  myself. 

SEELIG.    You  can  do  it. 

CLAYTON.     I  can? 

SEELIG.     Yes — only  you  have  to  begin. 

CLAYTON.     You  mean  with  myself? 

SEELIG.  I  mean  with  the  work  that's  nearest  to  you, 
Frank.  If  I  wanted  you  to  walk  around  Central  Park  you 
would  have  to  get  up,  you  would  have  to  walk  to  the  door; 
you  would  have  to  go  down  the  steps;  you  would  have  to 
walk  to  Central  Park.  In  other  words,  you  would  have  to 
cover  the  ground  that  is  nearest  to  you.  Now,  in  the  work 
you  say  you  would  like  to  do,  you've  also  got  to  cover  the 
ground  that's  nearest  you.  Suppose  you  were  going  to  save 
somebody  and  you  had  your  choice — whom  would  you  save  ? 
Why,  the  people  dearest  to  you.  You  would  save — little 
Dick — eh? 

CLAYTON.     [7n  pain.~\     Don't  talk  of  Dick. 

SEELIG.  I've  got  to  talk  of  him.  The  boy  isn't  getting  a 
father's  care. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  93 

CLAYTON.     You  advised  me  not  to  take  him. 

SEELIG.  I  still  advise  that.  He  is  getting  a  mother's 
care,  but  he  needs  a  father's  also.  Now  suppose  you  could 
save  little  Dick.  The  next  dearest  person  to  you  would 
be  his  mother,  wouldn't  she? 

CLAYTON.     She's  made  her  bed. 

SEELIG.  Yes,  but  after  you've  made  beds  there's  some 
thing  more  to  do  than  lie  in  them.  After  a  reasonable 
time  you  are  to  get  up  and  get  out  of  them. 

CLAYTON.     She's  all  right — free  to  do  as  she  likes. 

SEELIG.  No,  she  isn't.  She's  a  slave  to  her  remorse — 
she's  looking  back.  She  can't  realize  that  yesterday  is 
yesterday  and  that  a  dead  yesterday  is  just  as  dead  as 
Babylon.  Now,  you  want  work  to  do — why  not  do  that? 

CLAYTON.     Overlook  what  she's  done? 

SEELIG.  Yes — overlook  what  she's  done.  She  wasn't 
perfect — nobody  is.  She  makes  one  mistake — with  you  it's 
final.  You  don't  judge  anyone  else  that  way.  I've  seen 
you  throwing  little  Dick  the  baseball  teaching  him  to  hold 
it  and  not  to  break  his  chubby  fingers — standing  two  yards 
from  him — drop  and  drop  and  drop  it.  You  didn't  get 
tired — you  were  developing  the  boy.  Now  the  assumption 
is  that  Elinor  came  to  you  with  her  character  fully  de 
veloped;  but  my  dear  old  friend,  character  never  stops  de 
veloping  if  we  are  in  the  right  line.  There's  still  the 
perfecting  of  a  fine  woman.  You  want  something  to  do — 
do  that. 

CLAYTON.  All  right— Tell  her.—  [Pause.]  I  forgive 
her  [Pause.]  but  that  I'm  through  with  it  just  the  same. 

SEELIG.  I'll  not  carry  lies  to  her.  If  you  forgive  her 
you'll  go  where  she  is — you'll  go  looking  forward  and  not 
backward — [CLAYTON  shakes  head,  pause — SEELIG  regards 
watch.]  I  hate  to  leave  you  in  this  mood,  Frank. 

CLAYTON.     I'll — be  all  right. 


94  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

SEELIG.  Why  not  get  in  the  machine  and  take  a  run 
through  the  Park — only  a  half  hour — because  I  must  get 
back  to  the  hospital. 

CLAYTON.  [Pause.]  You  won't  try  any  snap  judgment 
on  me — no  driving  up  to  your  door  and  making  a  scene  of 
it? 

SEELIG.     Chauffeur  will  take  your  order. 

[Pause.     CLAYTON  begins  to  put  on  his  shoes. 
SEELIG  goes  to  the  telephone. 

CLAYTON.    What  are  you  doing? 

SEELIG.  I  can't  be  home  to  dinner.  ['Phones.'}  Yes — 
operator.  Give  me  319  Plaza — Plaza — yes. 

CLAYTON.  I  think — [Pause.}  Mrs.  Seelig  was  here; 
just  before  you  came — 

SEELIG.    Yes? 

CLAYTON.     [Pause.]     They  expect  you  at  dinner. 

SEELIG.  ['Phoning.]  Holland?  [Pause.]  This  is 
Doctor — I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Seelig — [Speaks  to  CLAYTON.] 
What  did  she  want? 

CLAYTON.     Oh — Dick's  Christmas  principally. 

SEELIG.  That  reminds  me — I  told  Dick  I'd  see  you 
['Phones.]  Hello? — yes  Sarah?  I  can't  get  home  to  dinner 
dear — [Pause.]  No — impossible.  [Pause.]  I'm  at  Frank 
Clayton's — [Pause.]  Nothing — that  is,  nothing  serious. 
He's  going  out  with  me — just  to  get  the  air,  that's  all.  , 
What's  that?  [Pause.]  Yes,  I'll  speak  to  her. 

CLAYTON.     Speak  to  whom? 

SEELIG.  [Speaking  to  CLAYTON.]  Mrs.  Seelig  wants 
to  know  if  I  won't  speak  to  your  wife.  ['Phones.]  Hello 
—that  you,  Elinor?  [Pause.]  Yes— he's  all  right— per 
fectly.  [Pause.]  Not  yet,  but  we're  going  out — in  the  car 
— I'll  give  it  to  him. 

CLAYTON.     Give  what? 

SEELIG.    Just  a  minute.     [Turns  to  CLAYTON  who  is  put- 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  95 

ting  on  his  coat.]     It  was  a  Christmas  gift — from  little  Dick 
— he  asked  me  to  bring  it  here. 
CLAYTON.     What  is  it? 

[SEELIG  takes  small  package  from  his  pocket 
and  hands  it  to  CLAYTON.  As  CLAYTON 
opens  package  SEELIG  turns  attention  to 
'phone  again. 

SEELIG.     Yes,  I'm  still  here — yes.     [Listens  in  silence  as 
CLAYTON  undoes  the  package  which  contains  a  photograph 
in  a  leather  case.     CLAYTON  bends  over  it,  deeply  moved.] 
Yes — yes — very  well — thank  you — good  night. 
CLAYTON.     [Quickly.]     Wait. 

SEELIG.       [Startled    by    loudness    of    CLAYTON'S    call.] 
Wait.     [Laughs  and  explains.]     I  said  wait  a  minute. 
CLAYTON.     She  at  that  'phone? 
SEELIG.     Yes. 

CLAYTON.     [Angrily.]     Let  me  have  it — there  are  a  few 
things  I  want  to  say  to  her. 

SEELIG.     [Protesting.]     Not  in  that  mood,  Frank. 
CLAYTON.     It's  all  a  frame  up  to  torture  me.      [Takes 
'phone     speaks  angrily.]      Hello!      [Anger  goes  from  his 
face — whole  manner  changes — tone  becomes  gentle  and  af 
fectionate.]     Dick,  that  you,  Dick  ?     [Pause.]     Yes,  I  hear 
you — [Pause.]      I   got   it,   my   boy,   thank   you — [Pause.] 
You  bet  I  like  it—  [Pause.]     The  tree?     [Pause.]     Yes,  by 
the   big   fireplace — [Pause.]      To-night?      Well — [Pause.] 
Then — [Pause  and  effort.]     Tell  her  to  come — with  you! 
[Drops    'phone    on    table,    receiver    hanging 
towards  the  floor.     Sinks  into  chair  face 
down   on   elbow   sobbing.      SEELIG   walks 
to  'phone,  hangs  up  receiver.     CLAYTON 
reaches  out  his  right  hand  blindly.     SEE 
LIG    takes    it — holds    it    reassuringly    and 
firmly.     Gives  CLAYTON  a  tonic  slap  on 


96  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

back  and  helps  him  rise.     CLAYTON  walks 
back  to  chair  facing  the  fre. 

SEELIG.  [Solemnly.]  Frank!  There  is  one  moment  in 
a  woman's  life — dazed  by  chloroform — wrung  with  pain — 
when  her  physician  hears  her  speak  the  name  of  the  man 
for  whom  she  suffers.  [Pause.]  Every  vestige  of  that 
doubt  you  uttered  in  my  library  must  be  effaced  from  your 
heart.  [Rings  push  button.] 

CLAYTON.     I  didn't — invent  the  doubt. 

SEELIG.     I  know. 

CLAYTON.  I  think — [Pause.]  I  hope  to  God  I'll  get 
rid  of  it — in  time. 

SEELIG.  It  mustn't  mar  this  reunion.  [Pause.]  When 
I  started  for  this  house — I  hoped — for  what  has  occurred. 
[Indicates  'phone.]  I  didn't  know  just  how  it  would  come 
about — but — I  knew — that  doubt  had  to  be  removed. 

CLAYTON.     I  don't  want  to  think  of  it. 
[Enter  SUTTON. 

SEELIG.  [To  SUTTON.]  A  gentleman  is  outside  in  a  cab, 
just  behind  my  car?  Ask  him  to  come  in. 

[SUTTON  goes. 

CLAYTON.  [Quickly  turning.]  Who  is  it?  [Pause.] 
Who? 

SEELIG.     I  want  you  to  be  calm  Frank. 

CLAYTON.     Who? 

SEELIG.     [Calmly.]     The  one  you  hate. 

CLAYTON.     No!     By  God,  no! 

[Starts  toward  the  hall. 

SEELIG.  [Interposing  and  catching  him.]  Frank — if 
you  had  to  go  under  the  knife  you'd  trust  me  as  a  surgeon, 
wouldn't  you? 

CLAYTON.  [Struggling  to  free  himself.]  You're  bung 
ling  this  job. 

SEELIG.     [Still  holding  CLAYTON.]     I'm  not  bungling  it. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  97 

[Enter  DE  LOTA. 

CLAYTON.    Don't  come  in  here. 

DE  LOTA.     Mr.  Clayton — 

SEELIG.  [Between  the  two  men.]  Speak  only  when  I 
bid  you — [Pause.  To  CLAYTON.]  Now  listen!  [To  DE 
LOTA.]  Before  Mr.  Clayton  introduced  you  to  Mrs.  Clay 
ton  a  year  ago — when  had  you  last  seen  her? 

DE  LOTA.    About  eight  years  before. 

SEELIG.     That  is  nine  years  ago. 

DE  LOTA.     Nine  years  ago. 

CLAYTON.     What's  one  lie  more  or  less. 

SEELIG.     Where  were  you  eight  years  ago? 

DE  LOTA.     In  France. 

SEELIG.      [Sternly.]      \Vhere! 

DE  LOTA.     [Pause.]     The  prison  de  La  Sante,  in  Paris. 

SEELIG.    For  how  long  a  term? 

DE  LOTA.     One  year. 

SEELIG.  I  asked  you  to  bring  your  prison  paper  of 
discharge.  [DE  LOTA  hands  paper  to  SEELIG.  SEELIG 
regards  paper  and  displays  it  to  CLAYTON.]  You  read 
French — numerals  at  least.  The  date  is  there. 

CLAYTON.     [After  a  glance.']     Well? 

SEELIG.  Also  Mr.  Burrill  was  in  the  court-room  when 
Mr.  De  Lota  was  sentenced.  [Pause.]  To  show  this 
paper,  to  admit  in  your  hearing — this  fact  has  not  been  an 
easy  thing  for  Benjamin  De  Lota  to  do.  He  does  it  at  my 
urging — the  appeal  of  one  Jew — to  another  Jew.  He  is 
going — he  lives  by  writing  criticism.  His  signature  to  an 
article  has  a  money  value — and  despite  these  personal  mis 
takes,  I  believe  his  influence  in  print  is  wholesome.  He 
leaves  your  magazines.  Of  course,  he  can't  expect  their 
recommendation,  but  I  have  promised  him — your  silence. 

CLAYTON.      [Pause.]      I  shan't — [Pause.]      Interfere. 

[SEELIG  turns — DE  LOTA  goes. 


98  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

SEELIG.  [Hand  on  CLAYTON'S  shoulder.]  I'm  proud 
of  you — [Pause.]  Now  forgive  an  old  practitioner  who 
knew  he  had  to  cauterize  quickly. 

CLAYTON.     You're — a  friend  all  right.    [Pause.]    Prison ! 

SEELIG.    That  year. 

CLAYTON.  And  I  made  that  rotten  accusation.  What  a 
brute  I've  been ! 

SEELIG.  My  dear  Frank,  that  also  is  yesterday.  [Pause 
and  change  of  manner.]  Dick  is  coming  to-night? 

CLAYTON.     Yes. 

SEELIG.  And  his  mother — [CLAYTON  nods.]  I'll  leave 
you  alone. 

CLAYTON.     I'd  rather  you  were  here. 

SEELIG.     I'll  wait  as  long  as  I  can.     [Consults  watch.] 

CLAYTON.  [Seated  on  couch.]  There's  some  troubling 
news  for  you. 

SEELIG.     For  me? 

CLAYTON.     [Nodding.]     I'd  like  to  cushion  it  if  I  could. 

SEELIG.     You  mean  bad  news ! 

CLAYTON.     Depends. 

SEELIG.      [Pause.]     Well — 

CLAYTON.  [Carefully.]  You  know — Vedah — rather 
fancied  Burrill,  don't  you  ? 

SEELIG.     Yes. 

CLAYTON.     Burrill  is  sailing  in  a  day  or  two — and — 

SEELIG.     [Pause.]     Well? 

CLAYTON.      Well — they've   been — [Pause.] 

SEELIG.     [Calmly.]     Married? 

CLAYTON.     To-day.  [SEELIG  nods  ruminatively. 

[Enter  DICK.     MRS.  SEELIG  and  ELINOR  appear  in  arch. 

DICK.     [Running  to  CLAYTON.]     Papa! 

CLAYTON.    Why,  Dick  boy! 

[Embraces  him.    ELINOR  goes  into  the  music 
room.     MRS.  SEELIG  comes  down. 


Act  IV]  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  99 

DICK.     [To  SEELIG.]     Did  you  give  it  to  him? 

SEELIG.      [Still  brooding.]      Yes. 

DICK.      [To  CLAYTON.]      You  like  it? 

CLAYTON.  You  bet  I  liked  it.  [DICK  laughs — CLAYTON 
leading  DICK  toward  the  music  room  speaks  to  MRS. 
SEELIG.]  I  told  the  Doctor. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     You  mean — ? 

CLAYTON.     Vedah  and  Burrill. 

[Goes  with  DICK  into  music  room. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [Coming  to  SEELIG'S  side.]     Samuel. 

SEELIG.      [Pause.]      You  knew  it? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  I  had  no  idea  of  it — but  he  has  to  cross 
the  ocean.  They  love  each  other — Vedah  was  almost 
broken-hearted.  We  wanted  Vedah  to  sacrifice  her  life  to 
teach  the  idea  of  one  God — but  Samuel — [Pause.  Puts 
hand  on  SEELIG'S  arm.] 

SEELIG.     Well? 

MRS.  SEELIG.  The  one  God  was  wiser  than  my  father, 
who  was  a  Rabbi.  He  may  be  wiser  than  we  are.  [Pause 
— SEELIG  gently  lifts  her  hand  and  kisses  it.  Pause.] 
Samuel — they're  at  home.  Come  forgive  them  and  let's 
be  happy  at  dinner.  [SEELIG  shakes  head.]  You  mean 
you  won't  forgive  them? 

SEELIG.  [Pause.]  I  mean  only  that  I  can't  come  to 
dinner.  There  is  a  surgery  case  at  the  hospital. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     [Pleading.]     Let  someone  else. 

SEELIG.     [Shaking  head.]     Too  important. 

MRS.  SEELIG.     Who  is  it? 

SEELIG.  A  little  boy  from  the  East  Side.  I  don't  re 
member  his  name,  but  the  appointment  is  for  eight  thirty. 
[MRS.  SEELIG  leaves  his  side.] 

[ELINOR  enters,  CLAYTON  and  DICK  appear 
in  doorway  after  her.  ELINOR  comes 
down  to  SEELIG. 


100  AS  A  MAN  THINKS  [Act  IV 

SEELIG.     It's  all  right? 

[ELINOR   nods   yes — takes   SEELIG'S   face   in 

both  hands  and  kisses  him. 

DICK.      [To   CLAYTON   in  childish   treble.]      She   kissed 
him — 

Curtain. 


UNIV.  OF 

CALIFORNIA, 

THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts 

By 
DAVID   BELASCO 

, 

DAVID  BELASCO  was  born  in  San  Francisco,  July  25, 
1859-  He  received  his  early  education  under  a  Catholic 
priest  at  Vancouver,  B.  C.,  and  graduated  from  Lincoln 
College,  California,  in  1875.  He  was  stage  manager  of 
the  Baldwin  Theatre,  San  Francisco,  in  1878,  and  later 
stage  manager  of  the  Grand  Opera  House  and  the  Metro 
politan  Theatre  in  the  same  city.  During  these  years, 
besides  his  original  work,  he  was  engaged  in  dramatizing 
novels  and  adapting  foreign  plays.  In  1880  he  took  charge 
of  production  for  Mallory  Brothers  at  the  Madison  Square 
Theatre,  New  York  City.  In  1887  he  went  to  Charles 
Frohman.  From  1902  he  was  manager  and  proprietor  of 
the  Republic  Theatre,  and  from  1908  of  the  Belasco  The 
atre.  Among  his  plays  are  May  Blossoms  (1884),  Lord 
Chumley  (1887),  The  Heart  of  Maryland  (1895),  Ma 
dame  Butterfly  (1900),  Mme.  du  Barry  (1901),  The  Girl 
of  the  Golden  West  (1905),  The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm 
(1911). 

The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm  was  first  produced  at  the 
Belasco  Theatre,  New  York,  October  17,  19H,  with  David 
Warfield  as  the  leading  character.  It  is  to  be  revived  in 
1920  with  Mr.  Warfield  again  as  Peter  Grimm. 

For  the  courteous  permission  to  print  this  play  for  the 
first  time^  the  present  editor  desires  to  express  his  personal 
thanks  to  the  author. 


[  Copyrighted  1 


0§   C        C  '•      r       '    *   <4,  9 

*'  Only*  twie  thiAg  r&illy,  ufcounts — only  one  thing — love. 
"It  is  «fcjit  ^flj7rfcfe!te^|:$iatfltejys*ifc.  the  long  run :  nothing  else 

CHARACTERS 
PETER  GRIMM 
FREDERIK,  his  nephew 
JAMES  HARTMAN 
ANDREW  MACPHERSON 
REV.  HENRY  BATHOLOMMEY 
COLONEL  TOM  LAWTON 
WILLIAM 
CATHERINE 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY 
MART  A 
THE  CLOWN 

SYNOPSIS 

The  scene  of  the  play  is  laid  in  the  living  room  of  Peter 
Grimm's  home  at  Grimm  Manor,  a  small  town  in  New  York 
.State,  founded  by  early  settlers  from  Holland. 

The  first  act  takes  place  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
on  a  fine  spring  day. 

The  second  act  passes  ten  days  later,  towards  the  close 
of  a  rainy  afternoon. 

The  third  act  takes  place  at  twenty  minutes  to  twelve 
on  the  same  night. 

NOTE 

The  author  does  not  advance  any  theory  as  to  the  proba 
bility  of  the  return  of  the  main  character  of  this  play.  For 
the  many,  it  may  be  said  that  Peter  could  exist  only  in  the 
minds  of  the  characters  grouped  about  him — in  their  sub 
conscious  memories.  For  the  few,  his  presence  will  embody 
the  theory  of  the  survival  of  the  persistent  personal  energy. 
"This  character  has,  so  far  as  possible,  been  treated  to  accord 
with  either  thought. 


THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM 

ACT  I 

[SCENE:  The  scene  shows  a  comfortable  living  room  in 
an  old  house.  The  furniture  was  brought  to  America 
by  PETER  GRIMM'S  ancestors.  The  GRIMMS  were,  for 
the  most  part,  frugal  people,  but  two  or  three  fine 
paintings  have  been  inherited  by  PETER.  A  small  old- 
fashioned  piano  stands  near  the  open  window,  a  few 
comfortable  chairs,  a  desk  with  a  hanging  lamp  above 
it  and  an  arm-chair  in  front  of  it,  a  quaint  old  fireplace, 
a  Dutch  wall  clock  with  weights,  a  sofa,  hat  rack,  and 
mahogany  flower  pot  holders,  are  set  about  the  room; 
but  the  most  treasured  possession  is  a  large  family 
bible  lying  on  a  table.  A  door  leads  to  a  small  office 
occupied  by  PETER'S  secretary.  Stairs  lead  to  the 
sleeping-rooms  above.  Through  the  window,  hot  houses, 
beds  of  tulips  and  other  flowers,  shrubs  and  trees  are 
seen.  "  PETER  GRIMM'S  Botanic  Gardens "  supply- 
seeds,  plants,  shrubbery  and  trees  to  the  wholesale,  as 
well  as  retail  trade,  and  the  view  suggests  the  im 
portance  of  the  industry.  An  old  Dutch  windmill, 
erected  by  a  Colonial  ancestor,  gives  a  quaint  touch  to 
the  picture.  Although  PETER  GRIMM  is  a  very  wealthy 
man  he  lives  as  simply  as  his  ancestors. 

.    DISCOVERED:  As  the  curtain  is  raised,  the  room 
is  empty;  but  CATHERINE  is  heard  singing  in  the  dining 
room.     JAMES  HARTMAN,  PETER'S  secretary,  opens  his 
103 


104          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

door  to  listen,  a  small  bundle  of  letters  in  his  hand. 
He  is  a  well  set  up  young  man,  rather  blunt  in  his 
manner  and  a  trifle  careless  in  his  dress.  After  a 
pause,  he  goes  back  into  the  office,  leaving  the  door 
•  ajar.  Presently  CATHERINE  enters.  In  spite  of  her 
youth  and  girlish  appearance,  she  is  a  good  thrifty 
housekeeper.  She  wears  a  simple  summer  gown,  and 
carries  a  bunch  of  gay  tulips  and  an  old  silver  pitcher 
from  which  she  presently  pours  water  into  the  Harle 
quin  Delft  vase  on  PETER  GRIMM'S  desk.  She  peeps 
into  the  office,  retreating  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  as 
JAMES  appears.'] 

CATHERINE.     Did  I  disturb  you,  James? 

JAMES.     [On  the  threshold.]     No  indeed. 

CATHERINE.     Do  you  like  your  new  work? 

JAMES.  Anything  to  get  back  to  the  gardens,  Catherine. 
I've  always  done  outside  work  and  I  prefer  it;  but  I  would 
shovel  dirt  rather  than  work  for  any  one  else. 

CATHERINE.     [Amused.]     James! 

JAMES.  It's  true.  When  the  train  reached  the  Junction 
and  a  boy  presented  the  passengers  with  the  usual  flower 
and  the  "  compliments  of  Peter  Grimm," — it  took  me  back 
to  the  time  when  that  was  my  job;  and  when  I  saw  the  old 
sign,  "  Grimm's  Botanic  .  Gardens  and  Nurseries  " — I 
wanted  to  jump  off  the  train  and  run  through  the  grounds. 
It  seemed  as  though  every  tulip  called  "  hello  "  to  me. 

CATHERINE.  Too  bad  you  left  college !  You  had  only 
one  more  year. 

JAMES.  Poor  father!  He's  very  much  disappointed. 
Father  has  worked  in  the  dirt  in  overalls — a  gardener — 
all  his  life;  and  of  course,  he  over-estimates  an  education. 
He's  far  more  intelligent  than  most  of  our  college  pro 
fessors. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          105 

CATHERINE.  I  understand  why  you  came  back.  You 
simply  must  live  where  things  grow:  mustn't  you,  James? 
So  must  I.  Have  you  seen  our  orchids  ? 

JAMES.  Orchids  are  pretty;  but  they're  doing  wonder 
ful  things  with  potatoes  these  days.  I'd  rather  improve  the 
breed  of  a  squash  than  to  have  an  orchid  named  after  me.  •«' 
Wonderful  discovery  of  Luther  Burbank's — an  edible  cac 
tus.  Sometimes  I  feel  bitter  thinking  what  I  might  have 
done  with  vegetables,  when  I  was  wasting  my  time  studying 
Greek. 

CATHERINE.  [Changing  suddenly.]  James:  why  don't 
you  try  to  please  Uncle  Peter  Grimm? 

JAMES.     I  do ;  but  he  is  always  asking  my  opinion  and  j 
when  I  give  it,  he  blows  up. 

CATHERINE.  [Coaxingly.]  Don't  be  quite  so  blunt.  Try 
to  be  like  one  of  the  family. 

JAMES.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  be  like  one  of  this 
family. 

CATHERINE.    Why  not?    I'm  no  relation  at  all;  and  yet — 
JAMES.     [Making  a  resolution.']     I'll  do  my  best  to  agree 
with  him.      [Offering  his  hand.]      It's  a  promise. 

[They  shake  hands. 
CATHERINE.     Thank  you,  James. 

JAMES.  [Still  holding  her  hand.]  It's  good  to  be  back, 
Catherine.  It's  good  to  see  you  again. 

[He  is  still  holding  her  hand  when  FRED- 
ERIK  GRIMM  enters.  He  is  the  son  of 
PETER  GRIMM'S  dead  sister  and  has  been 
educated  by  PETER  to  carry  on  his  work. 
He  is  a  graduate  of  Amsterdam  College, 
and  in  appearance  and  manner,  sug 
gests  the  foreign  student.  He  has  man 
aged  to  pull  through  college  creditably, 
making  a  specialty  of  botany.  PETER  has 


106          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

given  him  the  usual  trip  through  Europe 
and  FREDERIK  has  come  to  his  rich  uncle 
to  settle  down  and  learn  his  business.  He 
has  been  an  inmate  of  the  household  for  a 
few  months.  He  poses  as  a  most  industri 
ous  young  man,  but  is,  at  heart,  a  shirker. 
FREDERIK.  Where's  uncle? 

JAMES.  Good  morning,  Frederik.  Your  uncle's  watching 
-father  spray  the  plum  trees.  The  black  knot's  after  them 
.again. 

FREDERIK.  I  can  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open.  Uncle 
wakes  me  up  every  morning  at  five — creaking  down  the 
old  stairs.  [Eyeing  CATHERINE  admiringly.]  You're  look 
ing  uncommonly  pretty  this  morning,  Kitty. 

[CATHERINE  edges  away  and  runs  upstairs  to  her  room. 
FREDERIK.     Hartman ! 
JAMES.     Yes? 

FREDERIK.  Miss  Catherine  and  you  and  I  are  no 
longer  children — our  positions  are  altered:  please  remem 
ber  that.  I'm  no  longer  a  student  home  for  the  holidays 
from  Amsterdam  College.  I'm  here  to  learn  the  business 
which  I  am  expected  to  carry  on.  Miss  Catherine  is  a 
young  lady  now,  and  my  uncle  looks  upon  her  as  his 
.daughter.  You  are  here  as  my  uncle's  secretary.  That's 
how  we  three  stand  in  this  house.  Don't  call  me  "  Fred 
erik  "  and  hereafter  be  good  enough  to  say:  "  Miss  Grimm." 
JAMES.  [Amiably.']  Very  well. 

FREDERIK.  James:  there's  a  good  opportunity  for  a 
young  man  like  you  in  our  Florida  house.  I  think  that  if  I 
spoke  for  you — 

JAMES.    Why  do  you  wish  to  ship  me  off  to  Florida  ? 
FREDERIK.     I  don't  understand  you,  Hartman.     I  don't 
wish  to  ship  you  off.     I  am  merely  thinking  of  your  future. 
You  seem  to  have  changed  since — 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          107 

JAMES.     We've  all  grown  up,  as  you  just  said. 

[JAMES  has  laid  some  mail  on  the  desk  and 
is  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  FREDERIK 
speaks  again,  but  in  a  more  friendly 
manner. 

FREDERIK.     The  old  man's  ageing:  do  you  notice  it? 

JAMES.  Your  uncle's  mellowing,  yes;  but  that's  only  to 
be  expected.  He's  changing  foliage  with  the  years. 

FREDERIK.  He's  growing  as  old  fashioned  as  his  hats. 
In  my  opinion,  this  would  be  the  time  to  sell. 

JAMES.  [Astonished.]  Sell?  Sell  a  business  that  has 
been  in  the  family  for — why,  it's  his  religion! 

FREDERIK.  It's  at  the  height  of  its  prosperity.  It  would 
sell  like  that!  [Snapping  his  fingers.]  What  was  the  last, 
offer  the  old  man  refused  from  Hicks  of  Rochester? 

JAMES.  [Noticing  the  sudden  friendliness — looking  at 
FREDERIK,  half  amused,  half  disgusted.]  Can't  repeat 
correspondence,  Mr.  Grimm.  [Amazed.]  Good  heavens! 
You  surprise  me !  Would  you  sell  your  great,  great  grand 
father?  I  learned  to  read  by  studying  his  obituary  out 
in  the  peach  orchard:  "  Johann  Grimm  of  Holland,  an 
upright  settler."  There  isn't  a  day  your  uncle  doesn't 
tell  me  that  you  are  to  carry  on  the  work. 

FREDERIK.  So  I  was,  but  it's  not  my  religion.  [Sar 
castically.]  Every  man  can't  be  blessed  like  you  with  the 
soul  of  a  market  gardener — a  peddler  of  turnips. 

JAMES.  [Thinking — ignoring  FREDERIK.]  He's  a  great, 
old  man — your  uncle.  It's  a  big  name — Grimm — Peter 
Grimm.  The  old  man  knows  his  business — he  certainly 
knows  his  business.  [Changing.]  God!  It's  an  awful 
thought  that  a  man  must  die  and  carry  all  that  knowledge 
of  orchids  to  the  grave!  I  wonder  if  it  doesn't  all  count, 
somewhere.  I  must  attend  to  the  mail. 


108          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

[PETER  GRIMM  enters  from  the  gardens.    He 
is   a  well  preserved  man   of  sixty,   very 
simple  and  plain  in  his  ways.     He   has 
not  changed  his  style  of  dress  in  the  past 
thirty  years.     His  clothing,  collar,  tie,  hat 
and  shoes  are  all  old  fashioned.     He  is  an 
estimable  man,  scrupulously  honest,  gentle 
and    sympathetic;     but     occasionally     he 
shows  a  flash  of  Dutch  stubbornness. 
FREDERIK.     I  ran  over  from  the  office,  Uncle  Peter,  to 
make  a  suggestion. 
PETER.     Yes? 

FREDERIK.  I  suggest  that  we  insert  a  full  page  out  of 
your  new  tulip  in  our  mid-summer  floral  almanac. 

PETER.     [Who  has  hung  up  his  hat  on  his  own  particular 
peg,  affably  assenting.]     A  good  idea ! 
FREDERIK.     The  public  is  expecting  it. 
PETER.    You  think  so,  my  boy? 

FREDERIK.  Why  Uncle:  you've  no  idea  of  the  stir  this 
tulip  has  created.  People  stop  me  in  the  street  to  speak 
of  it. 

PETER.  Well,  well:  you  surprise  me.  I  didn't  think  it 
so  extraordinary. 

FREDERIK.  I've  had  a  busy  morning,  sir,  in  the  packing 
house. 

PETER.  That's  good.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  taking  hold 
of  things,  Fritz.  [Humorously,  touching  FREDERIK  affec 
tionately  on  the  shoulder.]  We  mustn't  waste  time;  for 
that's  the  stuff  life's  made  of.  [Seriously.]  It's  a  great 
comfort  to  me,  Frederik,  to  know  that  when  I'm  in  my  little 
private  room  with  James,  or  when  I've  slipped  out  to  the 
hot  houses, — you  are  representing  me  in  the  offices — young 
Mr.  Grimm.  .  .  .  James:  are  you  ready  for  me? 
JAMES.  Yes,  sir. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GLIMM          109 

PETER.  I'll  attend  to  the  mail  in  a  moment.  [Missing 
CATHERINE — he  calls,  according  to  the  household  signal.] 
Ou — oo !  [He  is  answered  by  CATHERINE,  who  immedi 
ately  appears  from  her  room  and  comes  running  down 
stairs.]  Catherine:  I  have  news  for  you.  I've  named  the 
new  rose  after  you:  "Katie — a  hardy  bloomer."  It  is  as 
red  as  the  ribbon  in  your  hair. 

CATHERINE.  Thank  you,  Uncle  Peter,  thank  you  very 
much.  And  now  you  must  have  your  cup  of  coffee. 

PETER.  That's  a  fine  little  housewife !  A  busy  girl  about 
the  house:  eh,  Fritz?  Is  there  anything  you  need  to-day, 
Katie  ? 

CATHERINE.  No,  Uncle  Peter:  I  have  everything  I  need, 
thank  you. 

PETER.  Not  everything — not  everything  my  dear. 
[Smiling  at  FREDERIK.  JAMES,  ignored,  is  standing  in  the 
background.]  Wait!  Wait  till  I  give  you  a  husband.  I 
have  my  plans.  [Looking  from  FREDERIK  to  CATHERINE.] 
People  don't  always  know  what  I'm  doing,  but  I'm  a  great 
man  for  planning.  Come  Katie:  tell  me  on  this  fine  spring 
morning,  what  sort  of  husband  would  you  prefer  ? 

CATHERINE.  [Annoyed — with  girlish  impatience.]  You're 
always  speaking  of  weddings,  Uncle  Peter.  I  don't  know 
what's  come  over  you  of  late. 

PETER.  It's  nesting  time  .  .  .  spring  weddings  are 
in  the  air;  besides  my  grandmother's  linen  chest  upstairs 
must  be  used  again  for  you,  [Impulsively  drawing  CATH 
ERINE  to  him]  my  house  fairy.  [Kisses  her.]  There:  I 
mustn't  tease  her.  But  I  leave  it  to  Fritz  if  I  don't  owe  her 
a  fine  husband — this  girl  of  mine.  Look  what  she  has  done 
for  me. 

CATHERINE.     Done  for  you?     I  do  you  the  great  favor  J 
to  let  you  do  everything  for  me. 

PETER.     Ah,   but  who  lays   out  my  linen?     Who   puts 


110          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

flowers  on  my  desk  every  day?  Who  gets  up  at  dawn  to 
eat  breakfast  with  me?  Who  sees  that  I  have  my  second 
cup  of  coffee?  But  better  than  all  that — who  brings  youth 
into  my  old  house? 

CATHERINE.     That's  not  much — youth. 

PETER.  No?  We'll  leave  it  to  Fritz.  [FREDERIK, 
amused,  listens  in  silence.']  What  should  I  be  now — a  rough 
old  fellow — a  bachelor — without  youth  in  my  house,  eh? 
God  knows !  Katie  has  softened  me  towards  all  the  ladies 
— er — mellowed  me  as  time  has  mellowed  my  old  pictures. 
[Points  to  a  picture.]  And  I  was  growing  hard — hard  and 
fussy. 

CATHERINE.  [Laughing.]  Ah,  Uncle  Peter:  have  I 
made  you  take  a  liking  to  all  the  rest  of  the  ladies  ? 

PETER.  Yes.  It's  just  as  it  is  when  you  have  a  pet: 
you  like  all  that  breed.  You  can  only  see  your  kind  of 
kitten. 

JAMES.  [Coming  down  a  step,  impressed  by  PETER'S 
remark — speaking  earnestly.]  That's  so,  sir.  [The  others 
are  surprised.]  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  that  way,  but  it's 
true.  You  study  a  girl  for  the  first  time,  and  presently  you 
notice  the  same  little  traits  in  every  one  of  them.  It  makes 
you  feel  differently  towards  all  the  rest. 

PETER.  [Amused.]  Why,  James,  what  do  you  know 
about  girls  ?  "  Bachelor  "  is  stamped  all  over  you — you're 
positively  labelled. 

JAMES.     [Good  naturedly.]     Perhaps. 

[Goes  back  to  the  office. 

PETER.  Poor  James !  What  a  life  before  him !  When 
a  bachelor  wants  to  order — three  rib  roast,  who's  to  eat  it? 
I  never  had  a  proper  roast  until  Katie  and  Frederik  came  to 
make  up  my  family;  [Rubbing  his  hands]  but  the  roasts 
are  not  big  enough.  [Giving  FREDERIK  a  knowing  look.] 
We  must  find  a  husband. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          111 

CATHERINE.     You  promised  not  to — 

PETER.  I  want  to  see  a  long,  long  table  with  plenty  of 
young  people. 

CATHERINE.     I'll  leave  the  room,  Uncle. 

PETER.  With  myself  at  the  head,  carving,  carving,  carv 
ing,  watching  the  plates  come  back,  and  back,  and  back. 
[As  she  is  about  to  go.]  There,  there:  not  another  word  of 
this  to-day. 

[The  'phone  rings.     JAMES  re-enters  and  answers  it. 

JAMES.  Hello!  [Turns.]  Rochester  asks  for  Mr.  Peter 
Grimm  to  the  'phone.  Another  message  from  Hicks'  green 
houses. 

PETER.    Ask  them  to  excuse  me. 

JAMES.  [Bluntly.]  You'll  have  to  excuse  him. 
[Listens.]  No,  no,  the  gardens  are  not  in  the  market. 
You're  only  wasting  your  time. 

PETER.     Tc !     Tc !    James  !     Can't  you  say  it  politely  ? 

[JAMES  listens  in  'phone. 

FREDERIK.  [Aside  to  Peter.]  James  is  so  painfully 
blunt.  [Then  changing.]  Is  it — er — a  good  offer?  Is 
Hicks  willing  to  make  it  worth  while?  [Catching  his 
Uncle's  astonished  eye — apologetically.]  Of  course,  I  know 
you  wouldn't  think  of — 

CATHERINE.  I  should  say  not!  My  home?  An  offer? 
Our  gardens?  I  should  say  not! 

FREDERIK.     Mere  curiosity  on  my  part,  that's  all. 

PETER.  Of  course,  I  understand.  Sell  out?  No  indeed. 
We  are  thinking  of  the  next  generation. 

FREDERIK.     Certainly,  sir. 

PETER.  We're  the  last  of  the  family.  The  business — 
that's  Peter  Grimm.  It  will  soon  be  Frederik  Grimm.  The 
love  for  the  old  gardens  is  in  our  blood. 

FREDERIK.     It  is,  sir. 

[Lays  a  fond  hand  on  PETER'S  shoulder. 


112          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

PETER.  [Struck.]  I  have  an  idea.  We'll  print  the 
family  history  in  our  new  floral  almanac. 

FREDERIK.  [Suppressing  a  yawn.]  Yes,  yes,  a  very 
good  idea. 

PETER.  Katie:  read  it  to  us  and  let  us  hear  how  it 
sounds. 

CATHERINE.  [Reads.]  "  In  the  Spring  of  170Q  there 
settled  on  Quassick  Creek,  New  York  State,  Johann  Grimm, 
aged  twenty-two,  husbandman  and  vine  dresser,  also 
Johanna,  his  wife." 

PETER.     Very  interesting. 

FREDERIK.     Very  interesting,  indeed. 

CATHERINE.  "  To  him  Queen  Anne  furnished  one  square, 
one  rule,  one  compass,  two  whipping  saws  and  several 
pieces.  To  him  was  born — " 

PETER.      [Interrupting.]     You  left  out  two  augers. 

CATHERINE.  [Reads.]  O,  yes — "  and  two  augers.  To 
him  was  born  a  son — " 

PETER.  [Who  knows  the  history  by  heart,  has  listened, 
his  eyes  almost  suffused — repeating  each  word  to  himself, 
as  she  reads.  He  has  lived  over  each  generation  down  to 
the  present  and  nods  in  approval  as  she  reaches  this  point.] 
The  foundation  of  our  house.  And  here  we  are  prosperous 
and  flourishing — after  seven  generations.  We'll  print  it, 
eh,  Fritz? 

FREDERIK.     Certainly,  sir.     By  all  means  let  us  print  it. 

PETER.     And  now  we  are  depending  upon  you,  Frederik, 
for  the  next  line  in  the  book.      [To  CATHERINE — slyly — 
,as  she  closes  the  book.]      If  my  sister  could  see  Frederik, 
what  a  proud  mother  she  would  be ! 

JAMES.  [Turning  from  the  'phone  to  PETER.]  Old  man 
Hicks  himself  has  come  to  the  'phone.  Says  he  must  speak 
to  Mr.  Peter  Grimm. 

FREDERIK.     Make  short  work  of  him,  uncle. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          113 

PETER.  [At  the  'phone.]  How  are  you,  my  old  friend? 
.  .  .  How  are  your  plum  trees?  [Listens.]  Bad,  eh? 
Well,  we  can  only  pray  and  use  Bordeaux  Mixture.  .  . 
No.  .  .  „  Nonsense!  This  business  has  been  in  my 
family  for  seven  generations.  Why  sell?  I'll  see  that  it 
stays  in  the  family  seven  generations  longer !  [Echoing.] 
Do  I  propose  to  live  that  long  ?  N — no ;  but  my  plans  will. 
[Looks  towards  FREDERIK  and  CATHERINE.]  How?  Never 
mind.  Good  morning.  [Hangs  up  the  receiver. 

JAMES.  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir,  but  some  of  these  letters 
are — 

FREDERIK.     I'm  off. 

PETER.  [Who  has  lifted  a  pot  of  tulips  to  set  it  in  the 
sun — standing  with  the  pot  in  his  hands.]  And  remember 
the  saying:  [A  twinkle  in  his  upraised  eyes]  "  Thou,  O  God, 
sellest  all  good  things  at  the  price  of  labor." 

[Smells  the  tulips  and  sets  them  down. 
FREDERIK.      [Goes   briskly   towards   the   door.]      That's 
true,  sir.     I  want  to  speak  to  you  later,  uncle — [Turning, 
looking  at  JAMES]  on  a  private  matter. 

[He  goes  off  looking  at  his  watch,  as  though 

he  had  a  hard  day's  work  before  him. 
PETER.     [Looking  after  FREDERIK.]     Very  capable  young 
fellow,  Frederik.     I  was  a  happy  man,  James,  when  I  heard 
that  he  had  won  the  prize  for  botany  at  Amsterdam  College. 
I  had  to  find  out  the  little  I  know  by  experience. 

JAMES.  [Impulsively.]  Yes,  and  I'll  wager  you've  for 
gotten  more  than — 

[Catching  a  warning  glance  from  CATHERINE  he  pauses. 
PETER.     What? 
JAMES.     Nothing,  sir.     I — 

CATHERINE.  [Tugging  at  PETER'S  coat — speaking  to 
him  apart,  as  JAMES  busies  himself  at  the  desk.]  Uncle 
Peter:  I  think  you're  unfair  to  James.  We  used  to  have  him 


THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

to  dinner  very  often  before  he  went  away.     Now  that  he's 
back,,  you  treat  him  like  a  stranger. 

PETER.  [Surprised.']  Eh?  I  didn't  know  that  I— 
[Petting  CATHERINE.]  A  good,  unselfish  girl.  She  thinks 
of  everybody.  [Aloud.~\  James,  will  you  have  dinner  with 
us  to-day? 

JAMES.  [Pleased  and  surprised.'}  Thank  you,  sir:  yes, 
sir. 

PETER.  It's  a  roast  goose, — cooked  sweet,  James. 
[Smacks  his  lips.]  Fresh  green  herbs  in  the  dressing  and 
a  Figaro  pudding.  Marta  brought  over  that  pudding  receipt 
from  Holland.  [MARTA,  an  old  family  servant,  has  entered 
with  the  air  of  having  forgotten  to  wind  the  clock.  She 
smiles  happily  at  PETER'S  allusion  to  her  puddings,  attends 
to  the  old  clock,  and  passes  off  with  CATHERINE.  PETER 
sits  at  the  desk,  glancing  over  the  mail.']  Katie's  blossom 
ing  like  a  rose.  Have  you  noticed  how  she's  coming  out 
lately,  James? 

JAMES.     Yes,  sir. 

PETER.     You've  noticed  it,  too? 

[Picks  up  another  letter,  looking  over  it. 

JAMES.    Yes,  sir. 

PETER.  [Pausing,  taking  off  his  eyeglasses  and  holding 
them  on  his  thumb.  Philosophically.]  How  prettily  nature 
accomplishes  her  will — making  a  girl  doubly  beautiful  that 
a  young  man  may  yield  his  freedom  the  more  easily.  Won 
derful!  [During  the  following,  he  glances  over  letters.] 
A  young  girl  is  like  a  violet  sheltered  under  a  bush,  James ; 
and  that  is  as  it  should  be,  isn't  it? 

JAMES.    No  sir,  I  don't  think  so. 

PETER.     [Surprised.]     What? 

JAMES.  I  believe  people  should  think  for  themselves — 
not  be.  ... 

PETER.    Go  on. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM  115 

JAMES. — er — 
PETER.     Well? 

JAMES.       [Remembering    his    promise    to    CATHERINE.] 
Nothing. 

PETER.     Go  on,  James. 
JAMES.     I  mean  swallowed  up. 

PETER.     Swallowed  up?     Explain  yourself,  James. 
JAMES.     I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it. 
PETER.     Certainly,  certainly.     Don't  be  afraid  to  express 
an  honest  opinion. 

JAMES.  I  only  meant  that  you  can't  shape  another's 
life.  We  are  all  free  beings  and — 

PETER.  Free?  Of  course  Katie's  free — to  a  certain  ex 
tent.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  any  young  girl  should 
be  freer?  Nonsense!  She  should  be  happy  that  I  am  here 
to  think  for  her — /.'  We  must  think  for  people  who  can't 
think  for  themselves;  and  a  young  girl  can't.  [Signing  an 
answer  to  a  letter  after  hastily  glancing  over  it.']  You  have 
extraordinary  ideas,  James. 

JAMES.  Excuse  me,  sir;  you  asked  my  opinion.  I  only 
meant  that  we  can't  think  for  others — any  more  than  we 
can  eat  or  sleep  for  them. 

PETER.  [As  though  accepting  the  explanation.]  O  .  .  . 
I  see  what  you  mean. 

JAMES.  Of  course,  every  happy  being  is  bound  by  its 
nature  to  lead  its  own  life — that  it  may  be  a  free  being. 
Evidently  I  didn't  make  my  meaning  clear. 

[Giving  PETER  another  letter  to  sign. 
PETER.     Free?     Happy?     James,  you  talk  like  an  anar 
chist!     You  surprise  me,  sir.     Where  do  you  get  these  ex 
traordinary  ideas? 

JAMES.  By  reading  the  modern  books  and  magazines,  sir, 
and  of  course — 

PETER.     I  thought  so.      [Pointing  to  his  books.]      Read 


116          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

Heine.  Cultivate  sentiment.  [Signing  the  letter.]  Happy? 
Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  Katie  is  not  happy? 

JAMES.     No,  sir;  I  can't  truthfully  say  that  it  has. 

PETER.  I  imagine  not.  These  are  the  happiest  hours 
of  her  life.  Young  ...  in  love  .  .  .  soon  to  be 
married. 

JAMES.     [After  a  long  pause.]     Is  it  settled,  sir? 

PETER.  No;  but  I'll  soon  settle  it.  Anyone  can  see  how 
she  feels  towards  Frederik. 

JAMES.  [After  a  shorter  pause.]  Isn't  she  very  young  to 
marry,  sir? 

PETER.  Not  when  she  marries  into  the  family ;  not  when 
7  am  in  the  house,  [Touching  his  chest]  to  guard  her — to 
watch  over  her.  Leave  it  to  me.  [Enthusiastically.]  Sit 
here,  James.  Take  one  of  Frederik's  cigars.  [JAMES 
politely  thanks  him,  but  doesn't  take  one.]  It's  a  pleasure 
to  talk  to  someone  who's  interested ;  and  you  are  interested, 
James  ? 

JAMES.  Yes,  sir:  I'm  much  more  interested  than  you 
might  think. 

PETER.  Good.  We'll  take  up  the  mail  in  a  minute. 
Now :  in  order  to  carry  out  my  plans — 

CATHERINE.  [Sticking  her  head  in  the  door.]  Ready 
for  coffee? 

PETER.  Er — a  little  later.  Close  the  door,  dear.  [She 
disappears,  closing  the  door.]  In  order  to  carry  out  my 
plans,  I  have  had  to  use  great  diplomacy.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  keep  Katie  in  the  family ;  being  a  rich  man — every 
body  knows  it — I've  had  to  guard  against  fortune  hunters. 
However  I  think  I've  done  away  with  them,  for  the  whole 
town  understands  that  Katie  hasn't  a  penny — doesn't  it, 
James  ? 

JAMES.     Yes,  sir. 

PETER.     Yes,  I  think  I've  made  that  very  clear.     My 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          117 

dream  was  tc  bring  Catherine  up  to  keep  her  in  the  family 
and  it  has  been  fulfilled.  My  plans  have  turned  out  beauti 
fully  for  she  is  satisfied  and  happy. 

JAMES.  But  did  you  want  her  to  be  happy  simply  be 
cause  you  are  happy,  sir  ?  Don't  you  want  her  to  be  happy 
because  she  is  happy? 

PETER.     If  she's  happy,  why  should  I  care? 

[Picks  up  the  last  letter. 

JAMES.     //  she's  happy. 

PETER.  [Losing  his  temper.]  What  do  you  mean? 
That's  the  second  time  you've  said  that.  Why  do  you  harp 
on — 

JAMES.     [Rising.]     Excuse  me,  sir. 

PETER.     [Angrily.]     Sit  down.     What  do  you  know? 

JAMES.     Nothing,  sir.     .    .    . 

PETER.  Yous  must  know  something  to  speak  in  this 
manner. 

JAMES.  No,  I  don't.  You're  a  great  expert  in  your  line, 
Mr.  Grimm,  and  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  your 
opinion;  but  you  can't  mate  people  as  you  graft  tulips. 
And  more  than  once,  I've — I've  caught  her  crying  and  I've 
thought  perhaps.  .  .  . 

PETER.  [Pooh-poohing.]  Crying?  Of  course!  Was 
there  ever  a  girl  who  didn't  cry?  .  .  .  You  amuse  me 
.  .  .  with  your  ideas  of  life.  .  .  .  Ha!  Haven't  I 
asked  her  why  she  was  crying — and  hasn't  she  always  said: 
"  I  don't  know  why — it's  nothing."  They  love  to  cry. 
[Signs  the  last  letter.]  But  that's  what  they  all  cry  over — 
nothing.  James:  do  you  know  how  I  happened  to  meet 
Katie?  She  was  prescribed  for  me  by  Doctor  MacPherson. 

JAMES.     [Taking  the  letter.]     Prescribed? 

PETER.  As  an  antidote.  I  was  growing  to  be  a  fussy 
old  bachelor  with  queer  notions.  You  are  young,  but  see 
that  you  don't  need  the  Doctor,  James.  Do  you  know  how 


118          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

I  was  cured?  I'll  tell  you.  One  day  when  I  had  business 
in  the  city,  the  Doctor  went  with  me,  and  before  I  knew 
what  he  was  at — he  had  marched  me  into  a  home  for 
babies.  .  .  .  Katie  was  nearest  the  door — the  first  one. 
Pinned  over  her  crib  was  her  name:  "Catherine  Staats, 
.aged  three  months."  She  held  out  her  little  arms  .  .  . 
so  friendless — so  pitiful — so  alone — and  I  was  done  for. 
We  brought  her  back  home,  the  Doctor,  a  nurse  and  I.  The 
first  time  I  carried  her  up  those  stairs — all  my  fine  bache 
lor's  ideas  went  out  of  my  head.  I  knew  then  that  my 
theories  were  all  humbug.  I  had  missed  the  child  in  the 
house  who  was  to  teach  me  everything.  I  had  missed  many 
children  in  my  house.  From  that  day  I  watched  over  her 
life.  [Riling,  pointing  towards  the  head  of  the  stairs.] 
James:  I  was  born  in  this  house — in  the  little  room  where 
I  sleep;  and  her  children  shall  one  day  ]&ay  in  the  room 
in  which  I  was  born.  .  .  .  That's  very  pretty,  eh? 
[Wipes  his  eyes,  sentimentally.]  I've  always  seen  it  that 
way. 

JAMES.  [Coolly.]  Yes;  it's  very  pretty  if  it  turns  out 
well. 

PETER.     How  can  it  turn  out  otherwise? 

JAMES.  To  me,  sir,  it's  not  a  question  of  sentiment — 
of  where  her  children  shall  play,  so  long  as  they  play 
happily. 

PETER.  What?  Her  children  can  play  anywhere — in 
China  if  they  want  to?  Are  you  in  your  senses?  A  fine 
reward  for  giving  a  child  all  your  affection — to  live  to  see 
her  children  playing  in  China.  No,  sir !  I  propose  to  keep 
my  household  together,  by  your  leave.  [Banging  his 
clenched  fist  on  the  desk.]  It's  my  plan.  [Cleans  his  pipe, 
looking  at  JAMES  from  time  to  time.  JAMES  posts  the  letters 
in  a  mail  box  outside  the  door.  PETER  goes  to  the  window, 
calling  off.]  Otto!  Run  to  the  office  and  tell  Mr.  Fred- 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          119 

erik  he  may  come  in  now.  [The  voice  of  a  gruff  Dutchman: 
"  Het  is  pastoor's  dag."  It  is  the  pastor's  day.]  Ah,  yes; 
I  had  forgotten.  It's  William's  day  to  take  the  flowers  to 
the  Pastor.  [A  knock  is  heard  and  as  PETER  calls  "  Come 
in/'  WILLIAM,  a  delicate  child  of  eight,  stands  timidly  in  the 
doorway  of  the  dining  room,  hat  in  hand.']  How  are  you 
to-day,  William?  [Pats  WILLIAM  on  the  shoulder. 

WILLIAM.    The  Doctor  says  I'm  well  now. 

PETER.  Good !  Then  you  shall  take  flowers  to  the 
church.  [Calls  off.]  A  big  armful,  Otto!  [MARTA  has 
entered  with  a  neatly  folded  clean  handkerchief,  which  she 
tucks  into  WILLIAM'S  breast  pocket.  In  a  low  voice  to 
JAMES.]  There's  your  example  of  freedom!  William's 
mother,  old  Marta's  spoiled  child,  was  free.  You  remem 
ber  Annamarie,  James  ? — let  to  come  and  go  as  she  pleased. 
God  knows  where  she  is  now  .  .  .  and  here  is  William 
with  the  poor  old  grandmother.  .  .  .  Run  along  with  the 
flowers,  William.  [Gives  WILLIAM  some  pennies  as  he 
goes.]  How  he  shoots  up,  eh,  Marta? 

MARTA.  [With  the  hopeless  sorrow  of  the  old,  as  she 
passes  off.]  Poor  child  .  .  .  poor  child. 

PETER.  Give  Katie  more  freedom,  eh  ?  O  no !  I  shall 
guard  her  as  I  would  guard  my  own,  for  she  is  as  dear  to 
me  as  though  she  were  mine,  and  by  marriage,  please  Go'd, 
she  shall  be  a  Grimm  in  name. 

JAMES.  Mr.  Grimm:  I — I  wish  you  would  transfer  me 
to  your  branch  house  in  Florida. 

PETER.  What?  You  who  were  so  glad  to  come  back! 
James:  you  need  a  holiday.  Close  your  desk.  Go  out  and 
busy  yourself  with  those  pet  vegetables  of  yours.  Change 
your  ideas,  then  come  back  sane  and  sensible  and  attend 
to  your  work.  [Giving  a  last  shot  at  JAMES  as  he  passes 
into  the  office  and  FREDERIK  re-enters.]  You  don't  know 
what  you  want! 


120          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

FREDERIK.  [Looking  after  JAMES.]  Uncle  Peter:  when 
I  came  in  this  morning,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  you 
of  James. 

PETER.     James? 

FREDERIK.  Yes.  I've  wondered  lately  if  ...  it 
seems  to  me  that  James  is  interested  in  Catherine. 

PETER.     James  ?     Impossible. 

FREDERIK.     I'm  not  so  sure. 

PETER.     [Good  naturedly.~]     James?     James  Hartma^? 

FREDERIK.  When  I  look  back  and  remember  him  as  a 
barefoot  boy  living  in  a  shack  behind  our  hot  houses — and 
see  him  now — in  here  with  you — 

PETER.     All  the  more  credit,  Frederik. 

FREDERIK.  Yes;  but  these  are  the  sort  of  fellows  that 
dream  of  getting  into  the  firm.  And  there  are  more  ways 
than  one. 

PETER.  Do  you  mean  to  say — He  wouldn't  presume  to 
think  of  such  a  thing. 

FREDERIK.  O,  wouldn't  he!  The  class  to  which  he  be 
longs  presumes  to  think  of  anything.  I  believe  he  has 
been  making  love  to  Catherine. 

PETER.  [After  a  slight  pause,  goes  to  the  dining  room 
door  and  calls.']  Katie!  Katie! 

FREDERIK.     [Hastily.']     Don't  say  that  I  mentioned  it. 
[CATHERINE  enters. 

PETER.  Katie:  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  question.  I — [He 
laughs.]  O,  it's  absurd.  No,  no,  never  mind. 

CATHERINE.     What  is  it? 

PETER.     I  can't  ask  you.     It's  really  too  absurd. 

CATHERINE.  [Her  curiosity  aroused.]  What  is  it, 
Uncle?  .  .  .  Tell  me  ...  tell  me.  ... 

PETER.     Has  James  ever — 

CATHERINE  .  [Taken  back  and  rather  frightened — 
quickly.]  No.  .  .  . 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          121 

PETER.  What?  .  .  .  How  did  you  know  what  I  ... 
[FREDERIK  gives  her  a  shrewd  glance;  but  PETER  suspecting 
nothing,  continues.]  I  meant  .  .  .  has  James  shown 
any  special  interest  in  you? 

CATHERINE.  [As  though  accepting  the  explanation.] 
Oh.  ...  [Flurried.]  Why,  Uncle  Peter!  .  .  .  Uncle 
Peter!  .  .  .  whatever  put  that  notion  into  your  head? 

PETER.     It's  all  nonsense,  of  course,  but — 

CATHERINE.  I've  always  known  James.  .  .  .  We  went 
to  school  together.  .  .  .  James  has  shown  no  interest  he 
ought  not  to  have  shown,  Uncle  Peter/ — if  that's  what  you 
mean.  He  has  always  been  very  respectful  in  a  perfectly 
friendly  way. 

PETER.  [Convinced.]  Respectful  in  a  perfectly  friendly 
way.  [To  FREDERIK.]  You  can't  say  more  than  that. 
Thank  you,  dear,  that's  all  I  wanted.  Run  along.  [Glad 
to  escape,  CATHERINE  leaves  the  room.]  He  was  only 
respectful  in  a  perfectly  friendly  way.  [Slaps  FREDERIK 
on  the  back.]  You're  satisfied  now,  I  hope? 

FREDERIK.  No,  I  am  not.  If  she  hasn't  noticed  what 
he  has  in  mind, — I  have.  When  I  came  into  this  room  a 
few  moments  ago — it  was  as  plain  as  day.  He's  trying  to 
make  love  to  her  under  our  very  eyes.  I  saw  him.  I 
wish  you  would  ask  him  to  stay  in  his  office  and  attend 
to  his  own  business. 

[JAMES  now  re-enters  on  his  way  to  the  gardens. 

PETER.  James:  it  has  occurred  to  me — that — [JAMES 
pauses.]  What  was  your  reason  for  wanting  to  give  up 
your  position?  Had  it  anything  to  do  with  my  little 
girl? 

JAMES.     Yes,  sir. 

PETER.      You  mean  that — you — you  love  her? 

JAMES.     [In  a  low  voice.]     Yes,  sir. 

PETER.    O-oh! 


122          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

[FREDERIK  gives  PETER  a  glance  as  though 

to  say:  "  Now,  do  you  believe  it?  " 

JAMES.  But  she  doesn't  know  it,  of  course;  she  never 
would  have  known  it.  I  never  meant  to  say  a  word  to  her. 
I  understand,  sir. 

PETER.  James !  Come  here  .  .  .  here !  .  .  . 
[Bringing  JAMES  up  before  him  at  the  desk.]  Get  your 
money  at  the  office.  You  may  have  that  position  in  Florida. 
Good-bye,  James. 

JAMES.     I'm  very  sorry  that     .    .    .     Good-bye,  sir. 
FREDERIK.     You  are  not  to  tell  her  that  you're  going. 
You're  not  to  bid  her  good-bye. 

PETER.     [To  FREDERIK.]     Sh!     Let  me  attend  to — 
JAMES.      [Ignoring  FREDERIK.]      I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Grimm, 
that —  [His  voice  falters. 

PETER.  [Rising.]  James:  I'm  sorry  too.  You've  grown 
up  here  and — Tc !  Tc !  Good  fortune  to  you — James.  Get 
this  notion  out  of  your  head,  and  perhaps  one  day  you'll 
come  back  to  us.  We  shall  see. 

[Shakes  hands  with  JAMES,  who  leaves  the 

room,  too  much  overcome  to  speak. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     [Who  has  entered,  saying  carelessly 

to  JAMES  as  he  passes  him.]     Hy're  you,  Jim?    Glad  Jim's 

back.    One  of  the  finest  lads  I  ever  brought  into  this  world. 

[The  Doctor  is  a  man  of  about  PETER'S  age, 

but  more  powerfully  built.     He  has  the 

bent  shoulders  of  the  student  and  his  face 

is  exceedingly  intellectual.    He  is  the  rare 

type  of  doctor  that  forgets  to  make  out 

bills.     He  has  a  grizzled  grey  beard,  and 

his  hair  is  touched  with  grey.     He  wears 

silver-rimmed  spectacles.    His  substantial 

but   unpressed   clothing   is   made    by   the 

village  tailor. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          123 

PETER.     Good  morning,  Andrew. 
FREDERIK.     Good  morning,  Doctor. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Casts  a  quick,  professional  glance 
at  PETER.]  Peter:  I've  come  over  to  have  a  serious  word 
with  you.  Been  on  my  mind  all  night.  [Brings  down  a 
chair  and  sits  opposite  PETER.]  I — er — Frederik.  .  .  . 
[FREDERIK,  who  is  not  a  favorite  of  the  Doctor's,  takes  the 
hint  and  leaves  the  room.]  Peter:  have  you  provided  for 
everybody  in  this  house? 

PETER.     What?     Have  I— 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  You're  a  terrible  man  for  planning, 
Peter;  but  what  have  you  done?  [Casually.]  Were  you 
to  die, — say  to-morrow, — how  would  it  be  with — [Making  a 
gesture  to  include  the  household] — the  rest  of  them? 

PETER.  What  do  you  mean?  If  I  were  to  die  to 
morrow.  .  .  , 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  You  won't.  Don't  worry.  Good  for 
a  long  time  yet,  but  everyone  must  come  to  it — sooner  or 
later.  I  mean — what  would  Katie's  position  be  in  this 
house?  I  know  you've  set  your  heart  upon  her  marrying 
Frederik,  and  all  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  will  it  work? 
I've  always  thought  'twas  a  pity  Frederik  wasn't  James  and 
James  wasn't  Frederik. 

PETER.     What! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  O,  it's  all  very  well  if  she  wants 
Frederik,  but  supposing  she  does  not.  Peter:  if  you  mean 
to  do  something  for  her — do  it  now. 

PETER.  Now?  You  mean  that  I — You  mean  that  I 
might  .  .  .  die? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    All  can  and  do. 

PETER.     [Studying  the  DOCTOR'S  face.]     You  think  .   .   . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  The  machinery  is  wearing  out,  Peter. 
Thought  I  should  tell  you.  No  cause  for  apprehension, 
but— 


124          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

PETER.     Then  why  tell  me? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  When  I  cured  you  of  that  cold — wet 
flower  beds — two  days  ago,  I  made  a  discovery.  [Seeing 
CATHERINE  enter,  he  pauses.  She  is  followed  by  MARTA, 
carrying  a  tray  containing  coffee  and  a  plate  of  waffles.] 
Coffee!  I  told  you  not  to  touch  coffee,  Peter.  It's  rank 
poison. 

CATHERINE.     Wouldn't  you  like  a  cup,  Doctor? 

PETER.  Yes,  he'll  take  a  cup.  He  won't  prescribe  it, 
but  he'll  drink  it. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Horrified.']  And  hot  waffles  be 
tween  meals ! 

PETER.  Yes,  he'll  take  hot  waffles  too.  [MARTA  goes  to 
get  another  plate  and  more  waffles  and  CATHERINE  follows 
her.]  Now  Andrew:  you  can't  tell  me  that  I'm  sick — I 
won't  have  it.  Every  day  we  hear  of  some  old  boy  one 
hundred  years  of  age  who  was  given  up  by  the  doctors  at 
twenty.  No  sir !  I'm  going  to  live  to  see  children  in  my 
house, — Katie's  babies  creeping  on  my  old  floor;  playing 
with  my  old  watch  dog,  Toby.  I've  promised  myself  a  long 
line  of  rosy  Grimms. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  My  God,  Peter !  That  dog  is  fifteen 
years  old  now.  Do  you  expect  nothing  to  change  in  your 
house?  Man:  you're  a  home  worshiper.  However,  I — I 
see  no  reason  why — [Lying]  you  shouldn't  reach  a  ripe  old 
age.  [Markedly,  though  feigning  to  treat  the  subject 
lightly.]  Er — Peter:  I  should  like  to  make  a  compact  with 
you  .  .  .  that  whoever  does  go  first, — and  you're  quite 
likely  to  outlive  me, — is  to  come  back  and  let  the  other 
fellow  know  .  .  .  and  settle  the  question.  Splendid  test 
between  old  neighbors — real  contribution  to  science. 

PETER.     Make  a  compact  to — Stuff  and  nonsense ! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Don't  be  too  sure  of  that. 

PETER.     No,  Andrew,  positively  no.     I   refuse.     Don't 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM  125 

count   upon   me    for   any   assistance    in   your    spook   tests. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  And  how  many  times  do  you  think 
you've  been  a  spook  yourself?  You  can't  tell  me  that  man 
is  perfect;  that  he  doesn't  live  more  than  one  life;  that  the 
soul  doesn't  go  on  and  on.  Pshaw !  The  persistent  personal 
energy  must  continue,  or  what  is  God? 

[CATHERINE  has  re-entered  with  another  cup, 
saucer  and  plate  which  she  sets  on  the 
table,  and  pours  out  the  coffee. 

CATHERINE.  [Interested.]  Were  you  speaking  of — of 
ghosts,  Doctor? 

PETER.  Yes,  he  has  begun  again.  [To  CATHERINE.] 
You're  just  in  time  to  hear  it.  [To  MACPHERSON.]  Andrew: 
I'll  stay  behind,  contented  in  this  life;  knowing  what  I  have 
here  on  earth  and  you  shall  die  and  return  with  your 
— Ha ! — persistent  personal  whatever-it-is,  and  keep  the 
spook  compact.  Every  time  a  knock  sounds  or  a  chair 
squeaks,  or  the  door  bangs,  I  shall  say:  "  Sh!  There's  the 
Doctor ! " 

CATHERINE.  [Noticing  a  book,  which  the  Doctor  has 
taken  from  his  pocket,  and  reading  the  title.~\  "  Are  the 
Dead  Alive  ?  '" 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I'm  in  earnest,  Peter.  I'll  promise 
and  I  want  you  to  promise,  too.  Understand  that  I  am  not 
a  so-called  spiritist.  I  am  merely  a  seeker  after  truth. 

[Puts  more  sugar  in  his  coffee. 

PETER.  That's  what  they  all  are — seekers  after  truth. 
Rubbish!  Do  you  really  believe  in  such  stuff? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  know  that  the  dead  are  alive. 
They're  here — here — near  us — close  at  hand.  [PETER,  in 
derision,  lifts  the  table  cloth  and  peeps  under  the  table — 
then  taking  the  lid  off  the  sugar  bowl,  peers  into  it.~\  Some 
of  the  greatest  scientists  of  the  day  are  of  the  same 
opinion. 


126          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

PETER.  Bah !  Dreamers  !  They  accomplish  nothing  in 
the  world.  They  waste  their  lives  dreaming  of  the  world 
to  come. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  You  can't  call  Sir  Charles  Crookes, 
the  inventor  of  Crookes  Tubes, — a  waster:  no,  nor  Sir 
Oliver  Lodge,  the  great  biologist ;  nor  Curie,  the  discoverer 
of  radium ;  nor  Doctor  Lombroso,  the  founder  of  Science  of 
Criminology;  nor  Doctor  Maxwell,  de  Vesme,  Richet,  Pro 
fessor  James  of  Harvard,  nor  Professor  Hyslop.  Instead 
of  laughing  at  ghosts,  the  scientific  men  of  to-day  are  trying 
to  lay  hold  of  them.  The  frauds  and  cheats  are  being 
crowded  from  the  field.  Science  is  only  just  peeping 
through  the  half  opened  door  which  was  shut  until  a  few 
years  ago. 

PETER.  If  ever  I  see  a  ghost,  I  shall  lay  violent  hands 
upon  it  and  take  it  to  the  police  station.  That's  the  proper 
place  for  frauds. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I'm  sorry,  Peter,  very  sorry,  to  see 
that  you,  like  too  many  others,  make  a  jest  of  the  most  im 
portant  thing  in  life.  Hyslop  is  right:  man  will  spend 
millions  to  discover  the  North  Pole  but  not  a  penny  to  dis 
cover  his  immortal  destiny. 

PETER.  [Stubbornly.]  I  don't  believe  in  spook  mediums 
and  never  shall  believe  in  them. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Probably  most  professional  mediums 
cheat — perhaps  every  one  of  them;  but  some  of  them  are 
capable  of  real  demonstrations  at  times. 

PETER.  Once  a  swindler,  always  a  swindler.  Besides, 
why  can't  my  old  friends  come  straight  back  to  me  and  say : 
"  Peter  Grimm ;  here  I  am !  "  When  they  do — if  they  do — 
I  shall  be  the  first  man  to  take  off  my  hat  to  them  and  hold 
out  my  hand  in  welcome. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  You  ask  me  why?  Why  can't  a 
telegram  travel  on  a  fence  instead  of  on  a  wire?  Your 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          127 

friends  could  come  back  to  you  if  you  could  put  yourself 
in  a  receptive  condition;  but  if  you  cannot,  you  must  de 
pend  upon  a  medium — a  sensitive. 

PETER.  A  what?  [To  CATHERINE.]  Something  new, 
eh?  He  has  the  names  for  them.  Yesterday  it  was 
"  apports/' — flowers  falling  down  from  nowhere — hitting 
one  on  the  nose.  He  talks  like  a  medium's  parrot.  He  has 
only  to  close  his  eyes  and  along  comes  the  parade.  Spooks ! 
Spooky  spooks !  And  now  he  wants  me  to  settle  my 
worldly  affairs  and  join  in  the  procession. 

CATHERINE.  [Puzzled.]  Settle  your  worldly  affairs? 
What  do  you  mean,  Uncle  Peter? 

PETER.  [Evasively.]  Just  some  more  of  his  nonsense. 
Doctor :  you've  seen  a  good  many  cross  to  the  other  world : 
tell  me? — did  you  ever  see  one  of  them  come  back — 
one? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     No. 

PETER.  [Sipping  his  coffee.]  Never  have,  eh?  And 
never  will.  Take  another  cup  of  poison,  Andrew. 

[The  Doctor  gives  his  cup  to  CATHERINE, 
who  fills  it.  PETER  passes  the  waffles 
to  the  Doctor,  at  the  same  time  winking 
at  CATHERINE  as  the  Doctor  helps  himself. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  There  was  not  perhaps  the  intimate 
bond  between  the  doctor  and  patients  to  bring  them  back. 
But  in  my  own  family,  I  know  of  a  case. 

PETER.     [Apart  to  CATHERINE.]     He's  off  again. 

CATHERINE.  [Eager  to  listen.]  Please  don't  interrupt, 
Uncle.  I  love  to  hear  him  tell  of — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  know  of  a  return  such  as  you  men 
tion.  A  distant  cousin  died  in  London  and  she  was  seen 
almost  instantly  in  New  York. 

PETER.     She  must  have  travelled  on  a  biplane,  Andrew. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     If  my  voice  can  be  heard  from  San 


128          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

Francisco  over  the  telephone,  why  cannot  a  soul,  with  a 
God-given  force  behind  it,  dart  over  the  entire  universe? 
Is  Thomas  Edison  greater  than  God? 

CATHERINE.     [Shocked.]     Doctor? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  And  they  can't  tuck  it  all  on  telepa 
thy.  Telepathy  cannot  explain  the  case  of  a  spirit  message 
giving  the  contents  of  a  sealed  letter  known  only  to  the 
person  that  died.  Here's  another  interesting  case. 

PETER.  This  is  better  than  "  Puss  in  Boots/'  isn't  it, 
Katie?  More — er — flibbertigibberty.  Katie  always  loved 
fairy  stories. 

CATHERINE.      [Listening   eagerly.]      Uncle,  please. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Ignoring  PETER,  speaking  directly 
to  CATHERINE,  who  is  all  attention.]  An  officer  on  the 
Polar  vessel,  the  Jeanette,  sent  to  the  Arctic  regions  by  the 
New  York  Herald,  appeared  at  his  wife's  bedside.  She 
was  in  Brooklyn — he  was  on  the  Polar  Sea.  He  said  to  her, 
"  Count."  She  distinctly  heard  a  ship's  bell  and  the  word 
"  count  "  again.  She  had  counted  six  when  her  husband's 
voice  said:  "  Six  bells — and  the  Jeanette  is  lost."  The  ship 
was  really  lost  at  the  time  she  saw  the  vision. 

PETER.  A  bad  dream.  "  Six  bells  and  the  " — Ha !  Ha ! 
Spirit  messages !  Suet  pudding  has  brought  me  messages 
from  the  North  Pole  and  I  receive  messages  from  Kingdom 
come  after  I've  eaten  a  piece  of  mince  pie. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  There  have  been  seventeen  thousand 
other  cases  found  to  be  worth  investigation  by  the  London 
Society  of  Psychical  Research. 

PETER.  [Changing.]  Supposing,  Andrew,  that  I  did 
"  cross  over  " — I  believe  that's  what  you  call  dying, — that  I 
did  want  to  come  back  to  see  how  you  and  little  Katie  and 
Frederik  were  getting  on,  how  do  you  think  I  could  manage 
to  do  it? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    When  we  hypnotize  a  subject,  Peter, 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          129 

our  thoughts  take  possession  of  them.  As  we  enter  their 
bodies,  we  take  the  place  of  a  something  that  leaves  them 
— a  shadow  self.  This  self  can  be  sent  out  of  the  room — 
even  to  a  long  distance.  This  self  leaves  us  entirely  after 
death  on  the  first,  second  or  third  day,  or  so  I  believe.  This 
is  the  force  which  you  would  employ  to  come  back  to  earth 
— the  astral  envelope. 

t  PETER.  Yes,  but  what  proof  have  you,  Doctor,  that  I've 
got  an — an  astral  envelope? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Easily.]  De  Rochas  has  actually 
photographed  it  by  radio  photography. 

PETER.    Ha!    Ha!    Ha!    Ho!    Ho! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Mind  you — they  couldn't  see  it  when 
they  photographed  it. 

PETER.    I  imagine  not.    See  it?    Ho!    Ho! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  It  stood  a  few  feet  away  from  the 
sleeper  and  was  located  by  striking  at  the  air  and  watching 
for  the  corresponding  portion  of  the  sleeper's  body  to  recoil. 
By  pricking  a  certain  part  of  the  shadow  self  with  a  pin, 
the  cheek  of  the  patient  could  be  made  to  bleed.  The  camera 
was  focussed  on  this  part  of  the  shadow  self  for  fifteen 
minutes.  The  result  was  the  profile  of  a  head. 

PETER.     [After  a  pause.]     .    .    .    You  believe  that? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  The  experiment  has  been  repeated 
again  and  again.  Nobody  acquainted  with  the  subject 
denies  it  now. 

PETER.     Spook  pictures  taken  by  professional  mediums. 
[Turning  away  from  the  table  as  though  he 
had  heard  enough. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  De  Rochas,  who  took  the  pictures  of 
which  I  speak,  is  a  lawyer  of  standing;  and  the  room  was 
full  of  scientists  who  saw  the  pictures  taken. 

PETER.     Hypnotized — all  of  them.     Humbug,  Andrew ! 

DR.   MACPHERSON.     Under  these  conditions   it  is   quite 


ISO          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

impossible  to  hypnotize  a  room  full  of  people.  Perhaps 
you  think  the  camera  was  hypnotized?  In  similar  circum 
stances,  says  Lombroso,  an  unnatural  current  of  cold  air 
went  through  the  room  and  lowered  the  thermometer  several 
degrees.  Can  you  hypnotize  a  thermometer? 

CATHERINE.  [Impressed.]  That's  wonderful,  Doc 
tor! 

PETER.  Yes,  it's  a  very  pretty  fairy  story;  but  it  would 
sound  better  set  to  shivery  music.  [Sings.]  Toll  Dol! 
Dol!  Dol!  [Rising  to  get  his  pipe  and  tobacco.]  No,  sir! 
I  refuse  to  agree  to  your  compact.  You  cannot  pick  the 
lock  of  heaven's  gate.  We  don't  come  back.  God  did 
enough  for  us  when  he  gave  us  life  and  strength  to  work  and 
the  work  to  do.  He  owes  us  no  explanation.  I  believe  in 
the  old  fashioned  paradise  with  a  locked  gate.  [He  fills 
his  pipe  and  lights  it.]  No  bogies  for  me. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Riting.]  Peter:  I  console  myself 
with  the  thought  that  men  have  scoffed  at  the  laws  of  gravi 
tation,  at  vaccination,  magnetism,  daguerreotypes,  steam 
boats,  cars,  telephone,  wireless  telegraphy,  and  lighting  by 
gas.  [Showing  feeling.]  I'm  very  much  disappointed  that 
you  refuse  my  request. 

PETER.  [Laying  down  his  pipe  on  the  table.]  Since  you 
take  it  so  seriously — here — [Offers  his  hand]  I'll  agree. 
I  know  you're  an  old  fool — and  I'm  another.  Now  then — 
[Shakes  hands]  it's  settled.  Whichever  one  shall  go  first — 
[He  bursts  into  laughter — then  controlling  himself.]  If  I 
do  come  back,  I'll  apologize,  Andrew. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Do  you  mean  it? 

PETER.  I'll  apologize.  Wait:  [Taking  the  keys  from 
the  sideboard]  let  us  seal  the  compact  in  a  glass  of  my 
famous  plum  brandy. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Good! 

PETER.     [As  he  passes  off.]     We'll  drink  to  spooks. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          131 

CATHERINE.      You   really   do   believe,   Doctor,   that   the 
dead  can  come  back,  don't  you? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    Of  course  I  do,  and  why  not? 
CATHERINE.     Do  you  believe  that  you  could  come  back 
here  into  this  room  and  I  could  see  you? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     You  might  not  see  me;  but  I  could 
come  back  to  this  room. 

CATHERINE.    Could  you  talk  to  me  ? 
DR.  MACPHERSON.     Yes. 
CATHERINE.    And  could  I  hear  you? 
DR.   MACPHERSON.      I  believe  so.     That's  what  we're 
trying  to  make  possible. 

[CATHERINE,  still  wondering,  passes  off  with 
the  tray.    From  the  cellar,  PETER  can  be 
heard  singing  lustily. 
PETER.      "  If  you  want  a  bite  that's  good  to  eat, 

(Tra,  la,  ritte,  ra,  la,  la,  la!) 
Try  out  a  goose  that's  fat  and  sweet, 

(Tra,  la,  ritte,  ra,  la,  la,  la !)  " 
[During   the  song  MRS.   BATHOLOMMEY   has 
given  a  quick  tap  on  the  door  and  entered. 
She  is   about  forty   years   of  age.     Her 
faded  brown  hair  is  streaked  with  grey. 
She  wears  a  plain  black  alpaca  costume. 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Agitated.]     Good  morning,  Doc 
tor.     Fortunate  that  I  found  you  alone. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Drily.]  Hy're  you,  Mrs.  Bathol- 
ommey?  [The  REV.  HENRY  BATHOLOMMEY  now  enters. 
He  is  a  man  of  about  forty-five,  wearing  the  frock  coatf 
high  waistcoat  and  square  topped  hat  of  a  minister  of  the 
Dutch  Reformed  Church.]  Hy're,  Henry? 

[The  REV.  BATHOLOMMEY  bows.  WILLIAM 
has  returned  from  his  errand  and  entered 
the  room, — a  picture  book  under  his  arm. 


132          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

He  sits  up  by  the  window  absorbed  in 
the  pictures — unnoticed  by  the  others. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Closing  the  door  left  open  by 
PETER — shutting  out  the  sound  of  his  voice."]  Well,  Doc 
tor.  .  .  .  [She  pauses  for  a  moment  to  catch  her  breath 
and  wipe  her  eyes.]  I  suppose  you've  told  him  he's  got  to 
die. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Eyeing  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  with 
disfavor.']  Who's  got  to  die? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Why,  Mr.  Grimm,  of  course. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Amazed."]  Does  the  whole  damned 
town  know  about  it? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.    Oh! 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Easy,  Doctor.  You  consulted  Mr. 
Grimm's  lawyer  and  his  wife  told  my  wife. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  He  gabbed,  eh?  Hang  the  profes 
sional  man  who  tells  things  to  his  wife. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Doctor! 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [With  solicitude.']  I  greatly 
grieve  to  hear  that  Mr.  Grimm  has  an  incurable  malady. 
His  heart,  I  understand.  [Shakes  his  head. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  He's  not  to  be  told.  Is  that  clear? 
He  may  die  in  twenty  minutes — may  outlive  us  all — prob 
ably  will. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Pointing  to  REV.  MR.  BATHOL 
OMMEY.]  It  seems  to  me,  Doctor,  that  if  you  can't  do  any 
more,  it's  his  turn.  It's  a  wonder  you  Doctors  don't  baptize 
the  babies. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.    Rose ! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  At  the  last  minute,  he'll  want  to 
make  a  will — and  you  know  he  hasn't  made  one.  He'll 
want  to  remember  the  church  and  his  charities  and  his 
friends ;  and  if  he  dies  before  he  can  carry  out  his  intentions, 
the  minister  will  be  blamed  as  usual.  It's  not  fair. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          133 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Sh !  Sh !  My  dear  !  These  private 
matters — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I'll  trouble  you,  Mistress  Batholom- 
mey,  to  attend  to  your  own  affairs.  Did  you  never  hear  the 
story  of  a  lady  who  flattened  her  nose — sticking  it  into  other 
people's  business? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Doctor !  Doctor !  I  can't  have 
that! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Let  him  talk,  Henry.     No  one  in 
this  town  pays  any  attention  to  Dr.  MacPherson  since  he 
took  up  with  spiritualism. 
REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Rose! 

[He  motions  her  to  be  silent,  as  PETER,  com 
ing  up  the  stairs  from  the  cellar,  is  heard 
singing. 
PETER.      "  Drop  in  the  fat  some  apples  red, 

(Tra,  la,  ritta,  ra,  la,  la,  la !') 
Then  spread  it  on  a  piece  of  bread, 

(Tra,  la,  ritta,  ra,  la,  la,  la !)  " 

[He  opens  the  door,  carrying  a  big  jug  in  his  hand.  Hail 
ing  the  BATHOLOMMEYS  cheerfully.]  Good  morning,  good 
people. 

[He  puts  the  jug  on  the  sideboard  and  hangs 
up  the  key.  The  BATHOLOMMEYS  look 
sadly  at  PETER.  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  in 
the  foreground  tries  to  smile  pleasantly, 
but  can  only  assume  the  peculiarly  pained' 
expression  of  a  person  about  to  break 
terrible  news. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Rising  to  the  occasion — warmly- 
grasping  PETER'S  hand.]  Ah,  my  good  friend !  Many 
thanks  for  the  flowers  William  brought  us  and  the  noble 
cheque  you  sent  me.  We're  still  enjoying  the  vegetables 
you  generously  provided.  I  did  relish  the  squash. 


134          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

PETER.  [Catching  a  glimpse  of  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY'S 
gloomy  expression.]  Anything  distressing  you  this  morn 
ing,  Mrs.  Batholommey? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  No,  no  ...  I  hope  you're  feel 
ing  well — er — I  don't  mean  that — I — 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Cheerily. ]  Of  course,  she  does; 
and  why  not,  why  not,  dear  friend? 

PETER.     Will  you  have  a  glass  of  my  plum  brandy? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Stiffly."]  No,  thank  you.  As  you 
know,  I  belong  to  the  W.  C.  T.  U. 

PETER.     Pastor? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Tolerantly.']  No,  thank  you.  I 
am  also  opposed  to  er — 

PETER.   We're  going  to  drink  to  spooks — the  Doctor  and  I. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [With  a  startled  cry.]  Oh,  how 
can  you!  [Lifts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.]  And  at 
a  time  like  this.  The  very  idea — you  of  all  people ! 

PETER.  [Coming  down  with  two  glasses — handing  one 
to  the  Doctor.']  You  seem  greatly  upset,  Mrs.  Batholom 
mey.  Something  must  have  happened. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Nothing,  nothing,  I  assure  you. 
My  wife  is  a  trifle  nervous  to-day.  We  must  all  keep  up 
our  spirits,  Mr.  Grimm. 

PETER.  Of  course.  Why  not?  [Looking  at  MRS. 
BATHOLOMMEY — struck.]  I  know  why  you're  crying. 
You've  been  to  a  church  wedding.  [To  the  Doctor,  lifting 
his  glass.]  To  astral  envelopes,  Andrew.  [They  drink. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [With  sad  resignation.]  You  were 
always  kind  to  us,  dear  Mr.  Grimm.  There  never  was  a 
kinder,  better,  sweeter  man  than  you  were. 

PETER.     Than  I  was? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Rose,  my  dear! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  What  will  become  of  William? 

[Weeps. 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          135 

PETER.  William  ?  Why  should  you  worry  over  William  ? 
I  am  looking  after  him.  I  don't  understand — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Seeing  that  she  has  gone  too  far."] 
I  only  meant — it's  too  bad  he  had  such  an  M — 

PETER.     An  M — ? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [In  pantomime — mouthing  the 
word  so  that  WILLIAM  cannot  hear.']  Mother.  .  .  .  Anna- 
marie. 

PETER.     O.     .    .    . 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  She  ought  to  have  told  you  or  Mr. 
Batholommey  who  the  F — was. 

PETER.    F— ? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.    [In  pantomime  as  before.]    Father. 

PETER.  O.  .  .  .  [Spelling  out  the  word.]  S-c-o-u-n- 
d-r-e-1 — whoever  he  is!  [Calls.]  William:  [WILLIAM 
looks  up  from  his  book.]  You're  very  contented  here  with 
me,  are  you  not? 

WILLIAM.     Yes,  sir. 

PETER.     And  you  want  to  stay  here? 

WILLIAM.  Yes,  sir.  [At  that  moment  a  country  circus 
band — playing  a  typical  parade  march — blares  out  as  it 
comes  up  some  distant  street.]  There's  a  circus  in 
town. 

PETER.    A  circus  ? 

WILLIAM.  Yes,  sir.  The  parade  has  started.  [Opens 
the  window  and  looks  out  towards  left.]  Here  it  comes — 

PETER.     [Hurrying  to  the  door.]     Where?     Where? 

WILLIAM.     [Pointing.]     There! 

PETER.  [As  delighted  as  WILLIAM.]  You're  right.  It's 
coming  this  way!  Here  come  the  chariots. 

[Gestures  to  the  BATHOLOMMEYS  to  join  him 
at  the  window.  The  music  sounds  nearer 
and  nearer — the  parade  is  supposed  to  be 
passing,  WILLIAM  gives  a  cry  of  delight 


136          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

as  a  CLOWN  appears  at  the  window  with 
handbills  under  his  arm. 

THE  CLOWN.  [As  he  throws  the  handbills  into  the  room.] 
Billy  Miller's  big  show  and  monster  circus  is  in  town  this 
afternoon.  Only  one  ring.  No  confusion.  [Seeing  WIL 
LIAM.]  Circus  day  comes  but  once  a  year,  little  sir.  Come 
early  and  see  the  wild  animals  and  hear  the  lions  roar-r-r! 
Mind !  [Holding  up  his  -finger  to  WILLIAM.]  I  shall  ex 
pect  to  see  you.  Wonderful  troupe  of  trained  mice  in  the 
side  show.  [Sings.] 

"  Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 

Ha !     Hm ! 
Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 

To  buy  Miss  Mouse — " 
[Ends  the  song  abruptly.]  Ha!   Ha!   Ha!   Ha! 

[The  CLOWN  disappears  repeating  "Billy 
Miller's  big  show"  etc.,  until  his  voice  is 
lost  and  the  voices  of  shouting  children 
are  heard  as  they  run  after  him. 

PETER.      [Putting   his   hand  in  his  pocket.]      We'll  go. 
You  may  buy  the  tickets,  William — two  front  seats. 
[FREDERIK  re-enters  with  a  floral  catalogue. 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Apart  to  REV.  BATHOLOMMEY — 
looking  at  PETER.]     Somebody  ought  to  tell  him. 

WILLIAM.  [Getting  the  money  from  PETER.]  I'm  going! 
I'm  going!  [Dances.]  Oh,  Mr.  Grimm:  there  ain't  any 
one  else  like  you  in  the  world.  When  the  other  boys  laugh 
at  your  funny  old  hat,  /  never  do. 

[Pointing  to  PETER'S  hat  on  the  peg. 
PETER.    My  hat?     They  laugh  at  my  hat? 
WILLIAM.     We'll  have  such  a  good  time  at  the  circus. 
It's  too  bad  you've  got  to  die,  Mr.  Grimm. 

[There  is  a  pause.  PETER  stops  shorty  look 
ing  at  WILLIAM.  The  others  are  startled, 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          137 

but  stand  motionless,  watching  the  effect 
of  WILLIAM'S  revelation.  FREDERIK 
doesn't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  There 
is  an  ominous  silence  in  the  room.  Then 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY,,  whose  smile  has  been 
frozen  on  her  facet  takes  WILLIAM'S  hand 
and  is  about  to  draw  him  away,  when 
PETER  lays  his  hand  on  WILLIAM'S  shoul 
der.  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  steps  back. 
PETER.  [Kindly.]  Yes,  William,  most  people  have  to. 
.  .  .  What  made  you  think  of  it  just  then? 

WILLIAM.      [Points  to  the  Doctor.]     He  said  so.     Per 
haps  in  twentj^  minutes. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Quietly,  but  very  sternly.]     Wil 
liam! 

[WILLIAM   now   understands   that   he   should 

not  have  repeated  what  he  heard. 

PETER.     Don't  frighten  the  boy.     Only  children  tell  the 
truth.     Tell  me,  William — you  heard  the  Doctor  say  that? 
[WILLIAM  is  silent.     He  keeps  his  eyes  on  the  clergyman, 
who  is  looking  at  him  warningly.     The  tears  run  down  his 
cheeks — he  puts  his  fingers  to  his  lips — afraid  to  speak.] 
Don't  be  frightened.     You  heard  the  Doctor  say  that? 
WILLIAM.     [His  voice  trembling.]     Y-es  sir. 
PETER.      [Looks  around  the  room — beginning  to  under 
stand.]    .    .    .    What  did  you  mean,  Andrew? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    I'll  tell  you,  Peter,  when  we're  alone. 

PETER.      But     .    .    .     [MRS.   BATHOLOMMEY   shakes   her 

finger  threateningly  at  WILLIAM,  who  whimpers.]      Never 

mind.     It  popped  out,  didn't  it,  William?     Get  the  circus 

tickets  and  we'll  have  a  fine  time  just  the  same. 

[WILLIAM  goes  to  buy  the  tickets. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     I — er — good  morning,  dear  friend. 
[Takes  PETER'S  hand.]      Any  time  you   'phone   for  me — 


138          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

day  or  night — I'll  run  over  instantly.  God  bless  you,  sir. 
I've  never  come  to  you  for  any  worthy  charity  and  been 
turned  away — never. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Suddenly  overcome.']  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Grimm.  [In  tears,  she  follows  her  husband.  The  Doc 
tor  and  PETER  look  at  each  other.'] 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Cigar  in  mouth — very  abruptly.'] 
It's  cardiac  valvular — a  little  valve — [Tapping  heart] — in 
here.  [Slaps  PETER  on  the  shoulder.]  There's  my  'phone. 
[As  a  bell  is  heard  faintly,  but  persistently,  ringing  across 
the  street.}  I'll  be  back. 

[Catches  up  his  hat  to  hasten  off. 

PETER.     Just  a  minute. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Turning.]  Don't  fret  yourself, 
Peter.  You're  not  to  imagine  you're  worse  than  you  are. 
[Angrily.]  Don't  funk! 

PETER.  [Calmly.]  That  wasn't  my  reason  for  detain 
ing  you,  Andrew.  [With  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Yes? 

PETER.  That  if  there  is  anything  in  that  ghost  business 
of  yours,  I  won't  forget  to  come  back  and  apologize  for 
my  want  of  faith.  [The  Doctor  goes  home.  FREDERIK 
stands  looking  at  his  Uncle.  There  is  a  long  pause.  PETER 
throws  up  both  hands.]  Rubbish!  Doctors  are  very  often 
wrong.  It's  all  guess  work,  eh,  Fritz? 

FREDERIK.  [Thinking  of  his  future  in  case  of  PETER'S 
death.]  Yes,  sir. 

PETER.  However,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  I'll  take  that 
nip  of  plum  brandy.  [Then  thinking  aloud.]  Not  yet. 
.  .  .  Not  yet.  .  .  .  I'm  not  ready  to  die  yet.  I  have 
so  much  to  live  for  ....  When  I'm  older.  .  .  .  When 
I'm  a  little  old  leaf  ready  to  curl  up,  eh,  Fritz?  [He 
drains  his  glass,  goes  up  to  the  peg,  takes  down  his  hat, 
looks  at  it  as  though  remembering  WILLIAM'S  words,  then 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM          139 

puts  it  back  on  peg.  He  shows  no  sign  of  taking  DR.  MAC- 
PHERSON'S  verdict  to  heart — in  fact,  he  doesn't  believe  it.], 
Frederik:  get  me  some  small  change  for  the  circus — enough 
for  William  and  me. 

FREDERIK.  Are  you  going  .  .  .  after  all.  .  .  .  And. 
with  that  child? 

PETER.     Why  not? 

FREDERIK.  [Suddenly  showing  feeling.]  That  little 
tattler?  A  child  that  listens  to  everything  and  just  told 
you.  ...  He  shouldn't  be  allowed  in  this  part  of  the 
house.  He  should  be  sent  away. 

PETER.  [Astonished.]  Why  do  you  dislike  him,  Fred 
erik?  He's  a  fine  little  fellow.  You  surprise  me,  my 
boy.  .  .  .  [CATHERINE  enters  and  goes  to  the  piano r 
running  her  hands  softly  over  the  keys — playing  no  melody 
in  particular.  PETER  sits  in  his  big  chair  at  the  table  and 
picks  up  his  pipe.  FREDERIK,,  with  an  inscrutable  face,  now 
strikes  a  match  and  holds  it  to  his  uncle's  pipe.  PETER 
thoughtfully  takes  one  or  two  puffs;  then  speaking  so  as 
not  to  be  heard  by  CATHERINE.]  Frederik:  I  want  to  think 
that  after  I'm  gone,,  everything  will  be  the  same  here.  .  .  . 
just  as  it  is  now. 

FREDERIK.     Yes,  sir.  [Sitting  near  PETER. 

PETER.     Just  as  it  is.     .    .    . 

[FREDERIK  nods  assent.  PETER  smokes.  The 
room  is  very  cheerful.  The  bright  mid 
day  sunshine  creeps  through  the  windows, 
— almost  causing  a  haze  in  the  room — 
and  resting  on  the  pots  and  vases  and 
bright  flowers  on  the  tables. 

CATHERINE.  [Singing.]  "  The  bird  so  free  in  the 
heavens — " 

PETER.  [Looking  up — still  in  thought — seeming  not  to 
hear  the  song.]  And  my  charities  attended  to. 


140          THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  I 

[FREDERIK  nods  assent. 
CATHERINE.    "  Is  but  the  slave  of  the  nest; 

For  all  must  toil  as  God  wills  it, — 
Must  laugh  and  toil  and  rest." 

PETER.      [Who  has   been  thinking.]      Just  as  though   I 
were  here.     .    .    . 

CATHERINE.     "  The  rose  must  blow  in  the  garden;" 
PETER.     William  too.     Don't  forget  him,  Frederik. 
FREDERIK.     No,  Uncle. 
CATHERINE.     "The  bee  must  gather  its  store; 

The  cat  must  watch  the  mouse-hole, 
The  dog  must  guard  the  door." 

PETER.   [As  though  he  had  a  weight  off  his  mind.]     We 
won't  speak  of  this  again.     It's  understood. 

[Smokes,  listening  with  pleasure  as  CATHER 
INE  finishes  the  song. 
CATHERINE.     [Repeats  the  chorus.] 

"  The  cat  must  watch  the  mouse-hole, 
The  dog  must  guard  the  door. 
La  la,  La  la,"  etc. 
[At  the  close  of  the  song,  PETER  puts  down 

his  pipe  and  beckons  to  CATHERINE, 
PETER.    Give  me  the  book. 

[CATHERINE    brings   the   bible   to   PETER   as 

the  garden  bell  rings  outside. 
FREDERIK.     Noon. 

PETER.  [Opening  the  book  at  the  history  of  the  family 
— points  to  the  closely  written  page.]  Under  my  name  I 
want  to  see  this  written :  "  Married :  Catherine  and  Fred 
erik."  I  want  to  see  you  settled,  Katie — [Smiling.] — set 
tled  happily  for  life.  [He  takes  her  hand  and  draws 
FREDERIK  towards  his  chair.  CATHERINE,  embarrassed, 
plays  with  a  rose  in  her  belt.]  Will  you?  .  .  . 
CATHERINE.  I  I  don't  know.  ... 


Act  I]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM  141 

PETER.  [Taking  the  rose  and  her  hand  in  his  own.']  I 
know  for  you,  my  dear.  Make  me  happy. 

CATHERINE.  There's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  make  you 
happy,  uncle,  but — 

FREDERIK.    You  know  that  I  love  you,  Kitty. 
PETER.     Yes,  yes,  yes.     That's  all  understood.     He  has 
always  loved  you.     Everybody  knows  it. 
CATHERINE.     Uncle.    .    .    . 

PETER.    Make  it  a  June  wedding.    We  have  ten  days  yet. 
[Slipping  her  hand  in  FREDERIK'S,  taking  the 
rose  and  tapping  their  clasped  hands  with 
the  flower  as  he  speaks. 
FREDERIK.     Say  yes,  Kitty. 

CATHERINE.     [Nervously.]     I  couldn't  in  ten  days.  .    .    . 
FREDERIK.    But — 

PETER.  [To  FREDERIK.]  Who  is  arranging  this  mar 
riage,  you  or  I  ?  Say  a  month,  then,  Katie.  .  .  .  Promise 
me. 

CATHERINE.  [Her  lips  set.~\  If  you  have  set  your 
heart  on  it,  I  will,  Uncle  Peter.  ...  I  will  ...  I 
promise. 

PETER.  [Takes  a  ring  off  his  hand.]  The  wedding 
ring — my  dear  mother's.  [Gives  it  to  CATHERINE.]  You've 
made  me  very  happy,  my  dear. 

[He  kisses  CATHERINE.     Then  releasing  her, 
he   nods   to   FREDERIK  to  follow   his  ex 
ample.      PETER    turns    his    back    to    the 
young  couple  and  smokes. 
FREDERIK.     Catherine.     .    .    . 

[Dreading  his  embrace,  she  retreats  towards 
PETER  and  as  she  touches  him,  his  pipe 
falls  to  the  floor.  She  looks  at  him, 
startled.  FREDERIK,  struck,  looking  in 
tently  at  PETER,  who  sits  motionless. 


142         THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

CATHERINE.     Uncle  Peter.     .    .    .     Uncle!     What  is  it? 
What's  the  matter?     [Runs  to  the  door — calling  across  the 
street.]      Doctor!     There  he  is — just  going  out.      [Calls.] 
Come  back.     Come  back,  Doctor.     [To  FREDERIK.]      I  felt 
it.     I  felt  something  strange  a  minute  ago.     I  felt  it. 
FREDERIK.      [Taking  PETER'S  hand.]     Uncle  Peter! 
CATHERINE.     [Coming  back  to  PETER  and  looking  at  him 
transfixed.      Uncle  Peter !    Answer  me !     ...    It's  Katie ! 

[The  Doctor  enters  hurriedly. 
DR.  MACPHERSON.    Is  it     .    .    .     Peter? 

[He  goes  quickly  to  PETER  and  listens  to  his 
heart.  CATHERINE  and  FREDERIK  on 
either  side  of  him.  The  Doctor  with 
tender  sympathy  takes  CATHERINE  in  his 
arms. 

WILLIAM.  [Rushes  in  with  two  tickets  in  his  hand,  leav 
ing  the  door  open.  The  circus  music  is  faintly  heard.] 
Mr.  Grimm ! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Sh !  [A  pause,  as  though  breaking 
the  news  to  them  all.]  He's  gone. 

FREDERIK.     [Questioningly — dazed.]     Dead? 

[CATHERINE  is  overcome. 

WILLIAM.  [At  PETER'S  side — holding  up  the  circus 
tickets.]  He  can't  be  dead.  .  .  .  I've  got  his  ticket  to 
the  circus. 

Curtain. 


ACT    II 

[SCENE:  The  second  act  takes  place  ten  days  later, 
towards  the  close  of  a  rainy  afternoon.  A  fire  is  burn 
ing  in  the  grate  and  a  basket  of  hickory  wood  stands 
beside  the  hearth.  PETER'S  hat  is  no  longer  on  the 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         143 

peg.  His  pipes  and  jar  of  tobacco  are  missing.  A 
number  of  zvedding  presents  are  set  on  a  table,  some 
unopened.  The  interior  of  the  room,  with  its  snapping 
fire,  forms  a  pleasant  contrast  to  the  gloomy  exterior. 
The  day  is  fading  into  dusk. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  is  at  the  piano,  playing  the 
wedding  march  from  "  Lohengrin."  Four  little  girls 
are  grouped  about  her,  singing  the  words  to  the  air. 

"  Faithful  and  true : 
We  lead  ye  forth. 
Where  love  triumphant 
Shall  lighten  the  way." 

"  Bright  star  of  love. 
Flower  of  the  earth, 
Shine  on  ye  both 
On  Love's  perfect  day/' 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  That's  better.  Children:  remem 
ber  that  this  is  to  be  a  very  quiet  wedding.  You're  to  be 
here  at  noon  to-morrow.  You're  not  to  speak  as  you  enter 
the  room  and  take  your  places  near  the  piano.  Miss  Staats 
will  come  down  from  her  room,  at  least  I  suppose  she  will 
— and  will  stand.  .  .  .  [Thinks.]  I  don't  know  where 
— but  you're  to  stop  when  7  look  at  you.  Watch  me  as 
though  I  were  about  to  be  married.  [She  takes  her  place 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  the  children  repeat  the  song 
until  she  has  marched  across  the  room  and  stationed  herself 
in  some  appropriate  corner.  As  FREDERIK  appears  from  the 
hall,  where  he  leaves  his  rain  coat  and  umbrella,  MRS. 
BATHOLOMMEY  motions  the  children  to  silence.]  That  will 
do,  dears,  thank  you.  Hurry  home  between  showers.  [The 
children  go  as  she  explains  to  FREDERIK.]  My  Sunday 


144        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

School  scholars.  ...  I  thought  your  dear  uncle  would 
like  a  song  at  the  wedding.  I  know  how  bright  and  cheery 
he  would  have  been — poor  man.  Dear,  noble,  charitable 
soul! 

FREDERIK.     [In  a  low  voice.]     Where's  Catherine? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Taking  up  her  fancy  work,  seat 
ing  herself.]  Upstairs. 

FREDERIK.     With  that  sick  child  ?     Tc ! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Catherine  finds  it  a  pleasure  to  sit 
beside  the  little  fellow.  William  is  very  much  better. 

FREDERIK.  [Taking  a  telegram  from  his  pocket-book.] 
Well,  we  shall  soon  be  off  to  Europe.  I've  just  had  a 
telegram — a  cabin  has  been  reserved  for  me  on  the  Impera- 
tor.  To-morrow,  thank  God,  we  shall  take  the  afternoon 
train  to  New  York, 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  must  confess  that  I'm  very  glad. 
Of  course,  I'm  happy  to  stay  and  chaperone  Catherine;  but 
poor  Mr.  Batholommey  has  been  alone  at  the  parsonage 
for  ten  days  .  .  .  ever  since  your  dear  uncle  .  .  . 
[Pauses,  unwinding  yarn,  then  unburdening  her  mind.]  I 
didn't  think  at  first  that  Catherine  could  persuade  herself 
to  marry  you. 

FREDERIK.  [Sharply.]  I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs. 
Batholommey. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  mean  she  seemed  so  averse  to — 
to  an  immediate  marriage;  but  of  course  it  was  your  uncle's 
last  request,  and  that  influenced  her  more  than  anything 
else.  So  it's  to  be  a  June  wedding,  after  all:  he  has  his 
wish.  You'll  be  married  in  ten  days  from  the  time  he  left 
us.  [Remembering.]  Some  more  letters  marked  personal 
came  for  him  while  you  were  out.  I  put  them  in  the 
drawer — [Points  to  desk] — with  the  rest.  It  seems  odd  to 
think  the  postman  brings  your  uncle's  letters  regularly,  yet 
he  is  not  here. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         145 

FREDERIK.  [Looking  towards  the  office  door.]  Did 
Hartman  come? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Yes.  He  seemed  rather  surprised 
that  you'd  sent  for  him. 

FREDERIK.  Did  you — er — tell  him  that  we  intend  to 
leave  to-morrow? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  spoke  of  your  wedding  trip, — 
yes. 

FREDERIK.     Did  he  seem  inclined  to  stay? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  He  didn't  say.  He  seemed  very 
much  agitated.  [MARTA  enters,  carying  a  night  lamp.] 
We'll  pack  Miss  Catherine's  things  to-night,  Marta.  [She 
notices  the  lamp.~\  The  night  lamp  for  William?  [Looks 
up  towards  the  door  of  his  room.]  Go  in  very  quietly. 
He's  asleep,  I  think.  [MARTA  goes  up  the  stairs  and  into 
WILLIAM'S  room.]  By  the  way,  Mr.  Batholommey  was  very 
much  excited  when  he  heard  that  your  uncle  had  left  a 
personal  memorandum  concerning  us.  We're  anxious  to 
hear  it  read.  [FREDERIK,  paying  no  attention  to  her  words, 
is  glancing  at  the  wedding  presents.]  We're  anxious  to 
hear  it  read. 

JAMES.     [Entering.]     Did  you  wish  to  see  me? 

FREDERIK.  [Offering  his  hand  to  JAMES.]  How  do  you 
do,  Hartman?  I'm  very  glad  you  consented  to  come  back. 
My  uncle  never  went  into  his  office  again  after  you  left. 
There  is  some  private  correspondence  concerning  matters 
of  which  I  know  nothing:  it  lies  on  your  old  desk.  .  .  . 
I'm  anxious  to  settle  everything  to-night. 

v     [MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  leaves  the  room. 

JAMES.     Very  well. 

FREDERIK.  If  you  care  to  remain  longer  with  the  firm, 
I— er— 

JAMES.  No,  thank  you.  As  soon  as  my  work  is  done 
to-night, — I'll  go. 


146        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

FREDERIK.  I  appreciate  the  fact  that  you  came  on  my 
uncle's  account.  I  have  no  ill  feeling  against  you,  Hart- 
man. 

JAMES.  I'm  not  refusing  to  stay  because  of  any  ill  feel 
ing.  I'm  going  because  I  know  that  you'll  sell  out  before 
your  uncle  is  cold  in  his  grave.  I  don't  care  to  stay  to  see 
the  old  place  change  hands. 

FREDERIK.  I?  Sell  out?  My  intention  is  to  carry  out 
every  wish  of  my  dear  old  uncle's. 

JAMES.     I  hope  so.     I  haven't  forgotten  that  you  wanted 

him  to  sell  out  to  Hicks  of  Rochester  on  the  very  day  he 

died.  [Exit  into  the  office.    CATHERINE  comes  from 

WILLIAM'S  room,  simply  dressed  in  white 

— no  touch  of  mourning.     FREDERIK  goes 

to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  calls  softly. 

FREDERIK.  Kitty !  Here  is  our  wedding  license.  I  have 
the  cabin  on  the  Imperator.  Everything  is  arranged. 

CATHERINE.  [Coming  down  stairs.]  Yes.  ...  I 
meant  to  speak  to  you — again. 

FREDERIK.     To-morrow's  the  day,  dear. 

CATHERINE.      [Very  subdued.']      Yes.     .    .    . 

FREDERIK.   A  June  wedding — just  as  Uncle  Peter  wished. 

CATHERINE.  [As  before.]  Yes.  .  .  .  Just  as  he 
wished.  Everything  is  just  as  he  ...  [With  a  change 
of  manner — earnestly — looking  at  FREDERIK.]  Frederik: 
I  don't  want  to  go  away.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Europe. 
If  only  I  could  stay  quietly  here  in — [Tears  in  her  voice 
as  she  looks  around  the  room.] — in  my  dear  home. 

FREDERIK.  Why  do  you  want  to  stay  in  this  old  cottage 
— with  its  candles  and  lamps  and  shadows?  It's  very 
gloomy,  very  depressing. 

CATHERINE.  I  don't  want  to  leave  this  house.  ...  I 
don't  want  any  home  but  this.  [Panic  stricken.]  Don't 
take  me  away,  Frederik.  I  know  you've  never  really  liked 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        147 

it  at  Grimm's  Manor:  are  you  sure  you'll  want  to  come 
back  to  live  here? 

FREDERIK.  [As  though  speaking  to  a  child.]  Of  course. 
I'll  do  anything  you  ask. 

CATHERINE.  I — I've  always  wanted  to  please  .  .  . 
[After  a  slight  pause,  finding  it  difficult  to  speak  his  name.] 
Uncle  Peter.  ...  I  felt  that  I  owed  everything  to  him. 
...  If  he  had  lived  ...  if  I  could  see  his  happiness 
at  our  marriage — it  would  make  me  happy;  [Pathetically] 
but  he's  gone  .  .  and  ...  I'm  afraid  we're  making 
a  mistake.  I  don't  feel  towards  you  as  I  ought,  Frederik. 
I've  told  you  again  and  again;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  once 
more:  I'm  willing  to  marry  you  .  .  .  but  I  don't  love 
you — I  never  shall. 

FREDERIK.     How  do  you  know? 

CATHERINE.  I  know.  ...  I  know.  ...  It  seems 
so  disloyal  to  speak  like  this  after  I  promised  him;  but — 

FREDERIK.  Yes,  you  did  promise  Uncle  Peter  you'd 
marry  me,  didn't  you? 

CATHERINE.     Yes. 

FREDERIK.     And  he  died  believing  you? 

CATHERINE.     Yes. 

FREDERIK.  Then  it  all  comes  to  this:  are  you  going  to 
live  up  to  your  promise? 

CATHERINE.  That's  it.  That's  what  makes  me  try  to 
live  up  to  it.  [Wiping  her  eyes.]  But  you  know  how  I 
feel.  .  .  .  You  understand.  .  .  . 

FREDERIK.  Perfectly:  you  don't  quite  know  your  own 
mind.  .  .  .  Very  few  young  girls  do,  I  suppose.  I  love 
you  and  in  time  you'll  grow  to  care  for  me.  [MARTA  re- 
enters  from  WILLIAM'S  room,  and  closing  the  door,  comes 
down  the  stairs  and  passes  off.]  What  are  we  to  do  with 
that  child? 

CATHERINE.     He's  to  stay  here,  of  course. 


148        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

FREDERIK.     The  child  should  be  sent  to  some  institution. 
What  claim  has  he  on  you — on  any  of  us? 
CATHERINE.     Why  do  you  dislike  him? 
FREDERIK.     I  don't,  but — 

CATHERINE.  Yes,  you  do.  I  can't  understand  it.  I 
remember  how  angry  you  were  when  you  came  back  from 
college  and  found  htm  living  here.  You  never  mention 
his  mother's  name,  yet  you  played  together  as  children. 
When  Uncle  tried  to  find  Annamarie  and  bring  her  back, 
you  were  the  only  one  to  oppose  it. 

FREDERIK.    William  is  an  uncomfortable  child  to  have  in 
the  house.     He  has  a  way  of  staring  at  people  as  though 
he  had  a  perpetual  question  on  his  lips.    It's  most  annoying. 
CATHERINE.     What  question? 

FREDERIK.  As  for  his  mother — I've  never  seen  her  since 
she  left  this  house  and  I  don't  care  to  hear  her  name  on 
your  lips.  Her  reputation  is — [The  rain  starts  pattering 
on  the  shingled  roof.]  Tc!  More  rain.  .  .  .  the  third 
day  of  it.  [Going  to  the  window — calling.]  Otto! 
[Angrily.]  Otto!  See  what  the  wind  has  done — those 
trellises.  [Bangs  the  window  shut.]  That  old  gardener 
should  have  been  laid  off  years  ago.  ...  By  the  way, 
his  son  James  is  here  for  a  few  hours — to  straighten  matters 
out.  I  must  sde  how  he's  getting  on.  [Taking  her  hand, 
drawing  her  towards  the  table  with  a  change  of  manner.'] 
Have  you  seen  all  the  wedding  presents,  Kitty?  I'll  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes. 

[Pats  her  cheek  and  exit.  CATHERINE  stands 
over  her  wedding  presents  just  as  he  left 
her — not  looking  at  them — her  eyes  filed 
with  tears.  The  door  is  suddenly  opened 
and  the  Doctor  enters,  a  tweed  shawl  over 
his  shoulders,  wearing  a  tweed  can.  He 
has  a  book  under  his  arm. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         149 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  How's  William?  [CATHERINE 
tries  to  hide  her  tears,  but  he  sees  through  her.  He 
tosses  his  cap,  coat  and  book  on  the  sofa.]  What's  the 
matter  ? 

CATHERINE.  Nothing.  ...  I  was  only  thinking. 
...  I  was  hoping  that  those  we  love  .  .  .  and  lose 
.  .  .  can't  see  us  here.  I'm  beginning  to  believe  there's 
not  much  happiness  in  this  world. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Why,  you  little  snip.  I've  a  notion 
to  spank  you.  Talking  like  that  with  your  life  before  you ! 
Read  this  book,  child:  [Gesturing  towards  the  book  on  the 
sofa.]  it  proves  that  the  dead  do  see  us;  they  do  come  back. 
[Walks  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs — turns.]  Catherine:  I 
understand  that  you've  not  a  penny  to  your  name — unless 
you  marry  Frederik;  that  he  has  inherited  you  along  with 
the  orchids  and  tulips.  Don't  let  that  influence  you.  If 
Peter's  plans  bind  you — and  you  look  as  though  they  did 
— my  door's  open.  Think  it  over.  It's  not  too  late.  [Goes 
half  way  up  the  stairs — then  pauses.]  Don't  let  the  neigh 
bors'  opinions  and  a  few  silver  spoons — [Pointing  to  the 
wedding  presents] — stand  in  the  way  of  your  future. 

[Exit   into   WILLIAM'S   room.      The   rain   in 
creases.       The    sky    grows    blacker — the 
room  darker.    CATHERINE  gives  a  cry  and 
stretches  out  her  arms,  not  looking  up. 
CATHERINE.     Uncle  Peter  !     Uncle  Peter !     Why  did  you 
do  it?     Why  did  you  ask  it?     Oh,  dear!     Oh,  dear!     If 
you  could  see  me  now.     [She  stands  rigid — her  arms  out 
stretched.     MARTA,  who  has  silently  entered  from  the  din 
ing  room  with  fresh  candles,  goes  to  CATHERINE  suddenly 
buries   her  face   on   MARTA'S   broad   breast,   breaking   int& 
sobs;  then  recovering,  wipes  her  eyes.]     There,  there.  .    .    . 
I    mustn't    cry     .    .    .    others    have    troubles    too,    haven't 
they? 


150        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

MARTA.     Others  have  troubles,  too. 

CATHERINE.  I  had  hoped,  Marta,  that  Annamarie  would 
have  heard  of  Uncle's  loss  and  come  back  to  us  ... 

MAJRTA.  If  it  had  only  brought  us  all  together  once 
more;  but  no  message  .  .  .  nothing.  ...  I  cannot 
>nnderstand. 

CATHERINE.     She  knows  that  our  door  is  open. 

[The  rain  beats  against  the  window.  A  sharp 
double  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 
CATHERINE  starts  as  though  suddenly 
brought  to  herself,  hastily  goes  into  the 
next  room,  taking  the  Doctor's  book  with 
her.  MARTA  has  hurried  towards  the 
front  door,  when  the  REV.  MR.  BATHOL- 
OMMEY  and  COLONEL  LAWTON  appear  in 
the  hall  as  though  they  had  entered  quickly, 
to  escape  the  storm.  MARTA,  greeting 
them,  passes  off  to  tell  FREDERIK  of  their 
presence.  The  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY 
wears  a  long  black  cloth  rain-proof  coat. 
COLONEL  LAWTON  is  a  tall  man  with  a 
thin  brown  beard  and  moustache,  about 
forty-eight.  He  is  dressed  in  a  Prince 
Albert  coat,  unpressed  trousers,  and  a 
negligee  shirt.  He  wears  spectacles  and 
has  a  way  of  throwing  back  his  head  and 
peering  at  people  before  answering  them. 
The  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  sets  his  um 
brella  in  the  hall  and  the  COLONEL  hangs 
his  broad  brimmed  hat  on  the  handle — 
as  though  to  let  it  drip. 

HEV.  BATHOLOMMEY.    Brr !    I  believe  it's  raining  icicles. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.      [Taking  off  his  over-shoes. ,]      Gee 

Whillikins!     What  a  day!     Good  thing  the  old  windmill 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         151 

out  yonder  is  tied  up.  Great  weather  for  baptisms,  Parson^ 
[There  is  a  faint  far-away  rumble  of  thunder.  FREDERIK 
enters.]  Well,  here  we, are,  Frederik,  my  boy — at  the  time 
you  mentioned. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     How  are  you,  Frederik? 

[COLONEL  LAWTON  crosses  to  the  fire,  fol 
lowed  by  the  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY. 
FREDERIK.     [Who  has  gone  to  the  desk  for  a  paper  lying 
under  a  paper  weight.]     I  sent  for  you  to  hear  a  memoran 
dum  left  by  my  uncle.     I  only  came  across  it  yesterday. 

[There  is  a  louder  peal  of  thunder.    A  flash 

of  lightning  illuminates  the  room. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.     I  must  have  drawn  up  ten  wills  for 
the  old  gentleman,  but  he  always  tore  'em  up.     May  I  have 
a  drink  of  his  plum  brandy,  Frederik? 
FREDERIK.     Help  yourself,  Pastor? 
REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Er — er — 

[COLONEL  LAWTON  goes  to  the  sideboard  and 
fills  two  glasses.  A  heavy  roll  of  thunder 
now  ends  in  a  sharp  thunder  clap.  MRS. 
BATHOLOMMEY,  who  is  entering  the  room, 
gives  a  cry  and  puts  her  hands  over  her 
face.  COLONEL  LAWTON  bolts  his  whiskey. 
The  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  takes  a 
glass  and  stands  with  it  in  his  hand. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Removing  her  hands  in  time  ta 
see  the  brandy.]  Why,  Henry!  What  are  you  doing? 
Are  your  feet  wet? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  No,  Rose,  they're  not.  I  want  a 
drink  and  I'm  going  to  take  it.  It's  a  bad  night. 

[Drinks. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Throws  a  hickory  log  on  the  fire, 
which  presently  blazes  up  making  the  room  much  brighter.'] 
Go  ahead,  Frederik. 


152        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[Sits.  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  has  drawn 
up  a  chair  for  his  wife  and  now  seats  him 
self  before  the  snapping  hickory  fire. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  knew  that  your  uncle  would  re 
member  his  friends  and  his  charities.  He  was  so  liberal! 
One  might  say  of  him  that  he  was  the  very  soul  of  generos 
ity.  He  gave  in  such  a  free-handed  princely  fashion. 

FREDERIK.  [Reading  in  a  business-like  manner.]  For 
Mrs.  Batholommey — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  The  dear  man — to  think  that  he 
remembered  me!  I  knew  he'd  remember  the  church  and 
Mr.  Batholommey,  of  course;  but  to  think  that  he'd  remem 
ber  me !  He  knew  that  my  income  was  very  limited.  He 
was  so  thoughtful !  His  purse  was  always  open. 

FREDERIK.  [Eyes  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  for  a  second,  then 
continues.]  For  Mr.  Batholommey — [REV.  MR.  BATHOL 
OMMEY  nods  solemnly] — and  the  Colonel. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Taking  out  a  cigar.]  He  knew 
that  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  him  .  .  .  [His  voice 
breaks]  the  grand  old  man.  [Recovering.]  What'd  he 
leave  me?  Mrs.  B. — er? 

[Nods  inquiringly  at  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY, 
who  bows  assent  and  he  lights  his  cigar. 

FREDERIK.  [Glancing  at  the  paper.]  Mrs.  Batholom 
mey:  he  wishes  you  to  have  his  miniature — with  his  affec 
tionate  regards. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Dear  old  gentleman — and  er — 
yes? 

FREDERIK.     To  Mr.  Batholommey — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  But — er — you  didn't  finish  with 
me. 

FREDERIK.    You're  finished. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     I'm  finished? 

FREDERIK.    You  may  read  it  yourself  if  you  like. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         153 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  No,  no,  no.  She'll  take  your  word 
for  it.  [Firmly.]  Rose! 

FREDERIK.  [Reads.]  To  Mr.  Batholommey:  my  antique 
watch  fob — with  my  profound  respects.  [Continues.]  To 
Colonel  Lawton — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  His  watch  fob?  Is  that  what  he 
left  to  Henry?  Is  that  all?  [As  FREDERIK  nods.]  Well! 
If  he  had  no  wish  to  make  your  life  easier,  Henry,  lie 
should  at  least  have  left  something  for  the  church.  Oh, 
won't  the  congregation  have  a  crow  to  pick  with  you ! 

FREDERIK.  [Reading.]  To  my  life-long  friend,  Colonel 
Lawton:  I  leave  my  most  cherished  possession. 

[COLONEL  LAWTON  has  a  look  on  his  face 
as  though  he  were  saying:  "Ah!  It  will 
be  something  worth  while." 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Angrily.]  When  the  church 
members  hear  that — 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Chewing  his  cigar.]  I  don't  know 
why  he  was  called  upon  to  leave  anything  to  the  church — 
he  gave  it  thousands ;  and  only  last  month,  he  put  in  chimes. 
As  7  look  at  it,  he  wished  to  give  you  something  he  had  used 
— something  personal.  Perhaps  the  miniature  and  the  fob 
ain't  worth  three  whoops  in  Hell, — it's  the  sentiment  of  the 
thing  that  counts — [Chewing  the  word  with  his  cigar]  the 
sentiment.  Drive  on,  Fred. 

FREDERIK.     To  Colonel  Lawton:  my  father's  pra}rer  book. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Suddenly  changing — dazed.]  His 
prayer  book  .  .  .  me? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Seeing  FREDERIK  lay  down  the 
paper  and  rise.]  Is  that  all? 

FREDERIK.     That's  all. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Still  dazed.]  A  prayer  book.  .  .  . 
Me?  Well,  I'll  be — [Struck.]  Here,  Parson,  let's  swap. 
You  take  the  prayer  book — I'll  take  the  old  fob. 


154        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Stiffly."]  Thank  you.  I  already 
Jiave  a  prayer  book. 

[Goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out — his  back 
turned  to  the  others — trying  to  control  his 
feelings. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Her  voice  trembling  with  vexa 
tion  and  disappointment.]  Well,  all  I  can  say  is — I'm  dis 
appointed  in  your  uncle. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  Is  it  for  this  you  hauled  us  out  in 
i;he  rain,  Frederik? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Bitterly.']  I  see  now  ...  he 
only  gave  to  the  church  to  show  off. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Rose !  .  .  .  I  myself  am  disap 
pointed,  but — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  He  did!  Or  why  didn't  he  con 
tinue  his  work?  He  was  not  a  generous  man.  He  was  a 
Lard,  uncharitable,  selfish  old  man. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Horrified.']     Rose,  my  dear! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  He  was !  If  he  were  here,  I'd 
.say  it  to  his  face.  The  congregation  sicked  you  after  him. 
Now  that  he's  gone  and  you'll  get  nothing  more,  they'll 
call  you  slow — slow  and  pokey.  You'll  see!  You'll  see 
to-morrow. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Sh! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  As  for  the  Colonel,  who  spent  half 
his  time  with  Mr.  Grimm,  what  is  his  reward?  A  watch 
fob!  [Prophetically.]  Henry:  mark  my  words — this  will 
be  the  end  of  you.  It's  only  a  question  of  a  few  weeks. 
One  of  these  new  football  playing  ministers  just  out  of 
college,  will  take  your  place.  It's  not  what  you  preach 
now  that  counts :  it's  what  you  coax  out  of  the  rich  parish 
ioner's  pockets. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [In  a  low  voice.]     Mrs.  Bathol- 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Religion  doesn't  stand  where  it 
did,  Henry , — there's  no  denying  that.  There  was  a  time 
when  people  had  to  go  to  church — they  weren't  decent  if 
they  didn't.  Now  you  have  to  wheedle  'em  in.  The  church 
needs  funds  in  these  days  when  a  college  professor  is  openly 
saying  that — [Her  voice  breaks]  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  was 
a  comet.  [Weeps. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Control  yourself.  I  must  insist 
upon  it,  Mrs.  Batholommey. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Breaking  down — almost  breath 
lessly.]  Oh!  If  I  said  all  the  things  I  feel  like  saying 
about  Peter  Grimm — well — I  shouldn't  be  fit  to  be  a  clergy 
man's  wife.  Not  to  leave  his  dear  friends  a — 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  He  wasn't  liberal;  but  for  God's 
sake,  madam,  pull  yourself  together  and  think  what  he 
ought  to  have  done  for  me ! — I've  listened  to  his  plans  for 
twenty  years.  I've  virtually  given  up  my  business  for  him, 
and  what  have  I  for  it  ?  Not  a  button !  Not  a  button !  A 
bible.  Still  I'm  not  complaining.  Hang  that  chimney, 
Frederik,  it's  smoking. 

[COLONEL  LAWTON  stirs  the  fire — a  log  drops 
and  the  flame  goes  down.  The  room  has 
gradually  grown  darker  as  the  night  ap 
proaches. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Turning  on  COLONEL  LAWTON.] 
Oh,  you've  feathered  your  nest,  Colonel!  You're  a  rich 
man. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Enraged,  raising  his  voice.]  What? 
I  never  came  here  that  you  weren't  begging. 

FREDERIK.  [Virtuously — laying  down  the  paper.]  Well, 
I'm  disgusted !  When  I  think  how  much  more  I  should 
have  if  he  hadn't  continually  doled  out  money  to  every  one 
of  you ! 

COLONEL  LAWTON.    What? 


156        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

FREDERIK.     He  was  putty  in  your  hands. 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Yes,  you  can  afford  to  defend  his 
memory — you've  got  the  money. 

FREDERIK.  I  don't  defend  his  memory.  He  was  a  gul 
lible  old  fossil,  and  the  whole  town  knew  it. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  You  did  at  any  rate.  I've  heard 
you  flatter  him  by  the  hour. 

FREDERIK.  Of  course.  He  liked  flattery  and  I  gave  him 
what  he  wanted.  Why  not  ?  I  gave  him  plenty.  The  rest 
of  you  were  at  the  same  thing;  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
watching  him  give  you  the  money  that  belonged  to  me — to 
me — my  money.  .  .  .  What  business  had  he  to  be  gener 
ous  with  my  money?  [The  COLONEL  strikes  a  match  to 
light  his  cigar  and  as  it  flares  up,  the  face  of  FREDERIK  is 
seen — distorted  with  anger. ,]  I'll  tell  you  this:  had  he 
lived  much  longer,  there  would  have  been  nothing  left  for 
me.  It's  a  fortunate  thing  for  me  that — 

[He  pauses,  knowing  that  he  has  said  too  much. 

[The  room  is  now  very  dark.     The  rain  has 

subsided.      Everything    is    quiet    outside. 

There  is  not  a  sound,  save  the  ticking  of 

the  clock. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Solemnly — breaking  the  pause.] 
Young  man:  it  might  have  been  better  had  Mr.  Grimm  given 
his  all  to  charity — for  he  has  left  his  money  to  an  ingrate. 
FREDERIK.     [Laughing  derisively.]     Ha !    ha ! 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Sh!     Someone's  coming. 

[All  is  quiet.     The  clock  ticks  in  the  dark. 

The  door  opens. 

FREDERIK.  [With  a  change  of  voice. ~\  Come  in.  [No 
body  enters."]  Where's  a  light?  We've  been  sitting  in  the 
dark  like  owls.  Come  in. 

[A  pause.     He  strikes  a  match  and  holds  it 
above  his  head.    The  light  shows  the  open 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        157 

door.     A   gust  of  wind  blowing  through 
the  doorway,  causes  the  light  to  flicker. 
COLONEL  LAWTON.     I'll  see  who's     .    .    .     [Looks  out.'] 
No  one. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Someone  must  be  there.  Who 
opened  the  door?  [The  wind  puts  out  the  match  in  FRED- 
ERIK'S  hand.  The  room  is  once  more  in  semi-darkness. ,] 
There  ...  it  closed  again.  .  .  . 

[FREDERIK  strikes  another  match  and  holds 

it  up.     The  door  is  seen  to  be  closed. 
COLONEL  LAWTON.      [Who  is  nearest  to  the  door.]      I 
didn't  touch  it. 

FREDERIK.  [Blowing  out  the  match."]  I'll  have  the 
lamps  brought  in. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Curious.     .    .    . 
REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     It  was  the  wind — a  draught. 
COLONEL  LAWTON.     [Returning  to  his  chair.]     Must  have 
been. 

CATHERINE.  [Entering  with  a  lamp."]  Did  someone 
call  me? 

[Without  pausing  she  sets  the  lamp  on  the 
table    and    turns    up    the    wick.      PETER 
GRIMM    is   seen   standing   in   the   room — 
half  in  shadow.     He  is  as  he  was  in  life. 
The  clothes  he  wears  appear  to  be  those 
he  wore  about  his  house  in  the  first  act. 
He  carries  his  hat  in  his  hand.     He  has 
the  same  kind  smile,  the  same  deferential 
manner,  but  his  face  is  more  spiritual  and 
years  younger.     He  is  unseen  by  all. 
PETER.      [Whose   eyes   never  leave   CATHERINE.]      Yes. 
.    .    .     I  called  you.     .    .    .     I've  come  back. 
FREDERIK.     [To  CATHERINE.]     No. 
PETER.      Don't    be    frightened,    Katie.      It's    the    most 


158        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

natural    thing    in    the    world.      You    wanted    me    and    I 
came. 

FREDERIK.  Why?  What  made  you  think  someone  called 
you? 

CATHERINE.  I'm  so  accustomed  to  hear  Uncle  Peter's 
voice  in  this  room,  that  sometimes  I  forget  he's  not  here'. 
...  I  can't  get  over  it !  I  was  almost  sure  I  heard  him 
speak  .  .  .  but  of  course,  as  soon  as  I  came  in — I  re 
membered  .  .  .  but  someone  must  have  called  me. 

FREDERIK.     No. 

[PETER  stands  looking  at  them,  perplexed; 
not  being  able  to  comprehend  as  yet  that 
he  is  not  seen. 

CATHERINE.  Isn't  it  curious  .  .  to  hear  your  name 
and  turn  and  .  .  .  [Unconsciously,  she  looks  in  PETER'S 
/ace]  no  one  there? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Kindly."]  Nerves.  .  .  .  Imag 
ination. 

FREDERIK.  You  need  a  complete  change.  [Crossing  to  the 
door.]  For  Heaven's  sake,  let's  have  more  light  or  we 
shall  all  be  hearing  voices. 

PETER.  Strange  .  .  .  nobody  seems  to  see  me.  .  .  . 
It's— it's  extraordinary!  Katie!  .  .  .  Katie!  .  .  . 

[Plis  eyes  have  followed  CATHERINE,  who 
is  now  at  the  door. 

CATHERINE.  [Pausing.]  Perhaps  it  was  the  book  I  was 
reading  that  made  me  think  I  heard.  .  .  .  The  Doctor 
lent  it  to  me. 

FREDERIK.     [Poo-poohing.]     O! 

CATHERINE.  [Half  to  herself.]  If  he  does  know,  if  he 
can  see,  he'll  be  comforted  by  the  thought  that  I'm  going 
to  do  everything  he  wanted. 

[She  passes  out  of  the  room. 

PETER.     [Showing  that  he  does  not  want  her  to  carry  out 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         159 

his  wishes.]      No,  no,  don't    .    .    .    Frederik!     I  want  to 
speak  to  you. 

[FREDERIK,  not  glancing  in  PETER'S  direction, 
lights  a  cigarette. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Well,  Frederik:  I  hope  the  old 
gentleman  can  see  his  mistake  now. 

PETER.  I  can  see  several  mistakes.  [REV.  MR.  BATHOL 
OMMEY  rises  and  goes  towards  the  doort  pausing  in  front  of 
PETER  to  take  out  his  watch.]  .  .  .  Mr.  Batholommey: 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  in  my  house.  .  .  .  I'm  very  sorry 
that  you  can't  see  me.  I  wasn't  pleased  with  my  funeral 
sermon:  it  was  very  gloomy — very.  I  never  was  so  de 
pressed  in  my  life. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [To  FREDERIK.]  Do  you  know 
what  I  should  like  to  say  to  your  uncle? 

PETER.     I  know. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  hope  at  least  you'll  care  for  the 
parish  poor  as  your  uncle  did — and  keep  on  with  some  of 
his  charities. 

PETER.  [Putting  his  hand  on  REV,  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY'S 
shoulder.]  That's  all  attended  to.  I  arranged  all  that 
with  Frederik.  He  must  look  after  my  charities. 

FREDERIK.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  now — you  needn't 
look  to  me.  It's  Uncle  Peter's  fault  if  your  charities  are 
cut  off. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Half  doubtingly.]  It  doesn't 
seem  possible  that  he  made  no  arrangements  to  continue  his 
good  works.  [FREDERIK  remains  stolid.  REV.  MR.  BATHOL 
OMMEY  puts  back  his  watch  after  glancing  at  it.]  Just 
thirty  minutes  to  make  a  call. 

[Goes  to  the  hall  to  put  on  his  over-shoes, 
coat,  etc.,  leaving  PETER'S  hand  extended 
in  the  air. 

COLONEL    LAWTON.       [Rising."]       I    must    be    toddling. 


160        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[Pauses.']     It's  queer,  Frederik,  how  things  turn  out  in  this 
world.  [He  stands  thinking  matters  over — cigar  in 

mouth,  his  hand  on  his  chin. 

PETER.  [Slipping  his  hand  through  COLONEL  LAWTON'S 
arm.  They  seem  to  look  each  other  in  the  eye.~\  You  were 
perfectly  right  about  it,  Thomas:  I  should  have  made  a 
will  .  .  .  I — suppose  it  is  a  little  too  late,  isn't  it?  .  .  . 
It  would  be — er — unusual  to  do  it  now,  wouldn't  it? 

[COLONEL  LAWTON,  who  has  heard  nothing 
— seen  nothing — moves  away  as  though 
PETER  had  never  held  his  arm — and  goes 
up  into  the  hall  for  his  cape  and  over 
shoes. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  [Noticing  an  old  gold  headed  walk 
ing  stick  in  the  hall.~\  O,  er — what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
all  the  old  man's  family  relics,  Frederik? 

FREDERIK.  The  junk,  you  mean?  I  shall  lay  it  on 
some  scrap  heap,  I  suppose.  It's  not  worth  a  penny. 

COLONEL  LAWTON.  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  They  say 
there's  a  lot  of  money  paid  for  this  sort  of  trash. 

FREDERIK.  Is  that  so?  Not  a  bad  idea  to  have  a  dealer 
in  to  look  it  over. 

[PETER  stands  listening,  a  faint  smile  on  his 

face. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  If  I  could  have  the  old  clock — 
cheap,  Frederik,  I'd  take  it  off  your  hands. 

FREDERIK.  I'll  find  out  how  much  it's  worth.  I  shall 
have  everything  appraised. 

[Sets  his  watch  by  the  clock.     MRS.  BATHOL 
OMMEY   gives   him   a   look   and  joins  her 
husband  at  the  door. 
COLONEL  LAWTON.     Good  night. 

[Exit,  closing  the  door. 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [As  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  goes 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         161 

out — calling  after  him.]     Henry:  Catherine  wants  you  to 
come  back  for  supper. 

[MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  leaves  the  room  too  dis 
gusted  for  words.  FREDERIK  goes  into 
the  office. 

PETER.  [Now  alone.]  We  live  and  learn  .  .  .  and 
oh!  What  I  have  learned  since  I  came  back.  .  .  .  [He 
goes  to  his  own  particular  peg  in  the  vestibule  and  hangs 
up  his  hat.  He  glances  at  the  wedding  presents.  Presently 
he  sees  the  flowers  which  CATHERINE  has  placed  on  the 
desk.  With  a  smile,  he  touches  the  flowers.  MARTA  enters 
with  another  lamp,  which  she  places  on  a  table.  As  PETER'S 
eyes  rest  on  MARTA,  he  nods  and  smiles  in  recognition,  wait 
ing  for  a  response.']  Well,  Marta?  .  .  .  Don't  you 
know  your  old  master?  .  .  .  No?  .  .  .  No? 
[She  winds  the  clock  and  leaves  the  room.]  I  seem  to  be 
a  stranger  in  my  own  house  .  .  yet  the  watch  dog  knew 
me  and  wagged  his  tail  as  I  came  in.  [He  stands  trying  to 
comprehend  it  all.]  Well!  Well! 

FREDERIK.  [Looking  at  his  watch,  re-enters  from  the 
office  and  goes  to  the  'phone,  which  presently  rings.  FRED- 
ERIK  instantly  lifts  the  receiver  as  though  not  wishing  to 
attract  attention.  In  a  low  voice.]  Yes.  ...  I  was 
waiting  for  you.  How  are  you,  Mr.  Hicks?  [Listens.] 
I'm  not  anxious  to  sell,  no.  I  prefer  to  carry  out  my  dear 
old  uncle's  wishes.  [PETER  eyes  him — a  faint  smile  on  his 
lips.]  If  I  got  my  price?  Well  ...  of  course  in  that 
case  ...  I  might  be  tempted.  To-morrow?  No,  I 
can't  see  you  to-morrow.  I'm  going  to  be  married  to 
morrow  and  leave  at  once  for  New  York.  Thank  you. 
[Listens.]  To-night?  Very  well,  but  I  don't  want  it 
known.  I'll  sell,  but  it  must  be  for  more  than  the  price  my 
uncle  refused.  Make  it  ten  thousand  more  and  it's  done. 
[Listens.]  You'll  come  to-night?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes.  .  .  . 


162         THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[Listens  at  the  'phone.]      The  dear  old  man  told  you  his 
plans   never   failed,   eh?      God   rest  his   soul!      [Laughing 
indulgently.]     Ha!     Ha!     Ha! 
PETER.     Ha!     Ha!     Ha! 

FREDERIK.  [Echoing  HICKS'  words.]  What  would  he 
say  if  he  knew  ?  What  could  he  say  ?  Everything  must 
change. 

[A  far-away  rumble  of  thunder  is  heard — the 
lightning  flickers  at  the  window  and  a 
flash  is  seen  on  the  telephone  which 
tinkles  and  responds  as  though  from  the 
electric  shock.  Exclaiming  "  Ugh." 
FREDERIK  drops  the  receiver — which 
hangs  down. 

PETER.  [The  storm  passes  as  he  speaks  into  the  receiver 
without  touching  the  telephone.]  Good  evening,  my  friend. 
We  shall  soon  meet — face  to  face.  .  .  .  You  won't  be 
able  to  carry  this  matter  through.  .  .  .  [Looking  into 
space  as  though  he  could  see  the  future.]  You're  not  well 
and  you're  going  out  to  supper  to-night  .  .  .  you  will 
eat  something  that  will  cause  you  to  pass  over  ....  I 
shall  see  you  to-morrow.  ...  A  happy  crossing! 

FREDERIK.     [Picks  up  the  receiver.]     Hello?     .    .    .    You 
don't  feel  well,  you  say?     [Then  after  listening  to  HICKS' 
answer.]     I  see.     .    .    .    Your  lawyer  can  attend  to  every 
thing  to-night — without  you.     Very  well.     It's  entirely  a 
question  of  money,  Mr.  Hicks.     Send  your  lawyer  to  the 
Grimm   Manor   Hotel.      I'll  arrange   at  once   for   a  room. 
Good-bye.     [Hangs  up  the  receiver.]     That's  off  my  mind. 
[He   lights   a   fresh   cigarette — his  face    ex 
pressing  the  satisfaction  he  feels  in  the 
prospect  of  a  perfectly  idle  future.   PETER 
looks   at   him   as    though    to   say,   "And 
that's  the  boy  whom  1  loved  and  trusted!  " 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        163 

FREDERIK   gets   his   hat,   throws   his   coat 
over  his  arm  and  hastens  out. 

PETER.  [Turns  and  faces  the  door  leading  into  the  next 
room,  as  though  he  could  feel  the  presence  of  someone  wait 
ing  there.]  Yes.  ...  I  am  still  in  the  house.  Come 
in  ...  come  in.  ...  [He  repeats  the  signal  of  the 
first  act.]  Ou — oo.  [The  door  opens  slowly — and  CATH 
ERINE  enters  as  though  at  PETER'S  call.  She  looks  about  her, 
not  understanding.  He  holds  out  his  arms  to  her.  CATH- 
erine  walks  slowly  towards  him.  He  takes  her  in  his  arms, 
but  she  does  not  respond.  She  does  not  know  that  she  is 
being  held.]  There !  There !  .  .  .  Don't  worry. 
It's  all  right.  .  .  .  We'll  arrange  things  very  differently. 
I've  come  back  to  change  all  my  plans.  [She  moves  away 
a  step— just  out  of  his  embrace.  He  tries  to  call  her  back.] 
Katie!  .  .  .  Can't  I  make  my  presence  known  to  you? 
Katie!  Can't  my  love  for  you  outlive  me?  Isn't  it  here  in 
the  home?  .  .  .  Don't  cry. 

[She  moves  about  the  room  in  thought.  As 
PETER  watches  her — she  pauses  near  the 
desk. 

CATHERINE.  [Suddenly.]  Crying  doesn't  help  matters. 
PETER.  She  hears  me.  She  doesn't  know  it,  but  she 
hears  me.  She's  cheering  up.  [She  inhales  the  flowers— 
a  half  smile  on  her  lips.]  That's  right:  you  haven't  smiled 
before  since  I  died.  [Suddenly  giving  way  to  the  realiza 
tion  of  her  loss,  CATHERINE  sighs.  Correcting  himself.] 
I — *  mean — since  I  learned  that  there  was  a  happier  place 
than  the  world  I  left.  ...  I'm  a  trifle  confused.  I've 
not  had  time  to  adjust  myself  to  these  new  conditions. 
[CATHERINE  smiles  sadly — goes  up  to  the  window,  and 
leaning  against  the  pane  looks  out  into  the  night.  PETER 
continues  comfortingly.]  The  dead  have  never  really  died,, 
you  know.  We  couldn't  die  if  we  tried.  We're  all  about 


164        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

you.  .  .  .  Look  at  the  gardens:  they've  died,  haven't 
they?  But  there  they  are  all  the  better  for  it.  Death  is 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  It's  really  a — ha! — de 
lightful  experience.  What  is  it,  after  all?  A  nap  from 
which  we  waken  rested,  refreshened  ...  a  sleep  from 
which  we  spring  up  like  children  tumbling  out  of  bed — 
ready  to  frolic  through  another  world.  I  was  an  old  man 
a  few  days  ago,  now  I'm  a  boy.  I  feel  much  younger  than 
yOU — much  younger.  [A  conflict  is  going  on  in  CATHERINE'S 
mind.  She  walks  to  the  chair  by  the  fireplace  and  sits — 
her  back  to  the  audience.  He  approaches  her  and  lays  a 
tender  hand  on  her  shoulder.']  I  know  what  you're  think 
ing  .  .  .  Katie !  I  want  you  to  break  that  very  foolish 
promise  I  asked  you  to  make.  You're  almost  tempted  to. 
Break  it!  Break  it  at  once;  then — [Glancing  smilingly 
towards  the  door — as  though  he  wished  to  leave — like  a 
child  longing  to  go  out  to  play.]  then  I  could — take  the 
journey  back  in  peace.  ...  I  can't  go  until  you  do — 
and  I  ...  I  long  to  go.  ...  Isn't  my  message  any 
clearer  to  you?  [Reading  her  mind.]  You  have  a  feeling 
...  an  impression  of  what  I'm  saying;  but  the  words 
.  .  .  the  words  are  not  clear.  .  .  .  Mm  ...  let 
me  see.  ...  If  you  can't  understand  me — there's  the 
Doctor:  he'll  know  how  to  get  the  message — he'll  find  the 
way.  .  .  .  Then  I  can  hurry  back  .  .  .  home  .  .  . 

CATHERINE.  [Helplessly — changing  her  position  like  a 
tired  child.]  Oh,  I'm  so  alone. 

PETER.  [Cheerily.]  Not  alone  at  all — not  at  all.  I 
shall  drop  in  very  often  .  .  .  and  then,  there's  your 
mother.  [Suddenly  remembering.]  O  yes,  I  had  almost 
forgotten:  I  have  a  message  for  you,  Katie.  .  .  .  [He 
seats  himself  in  a  chair  which  is  almost  in  front  of  her.] 
I've  met  your  mother.  [She  sits  in  a  deep  thought.  PETER 
continues  with  the  air  of  a  returned  traveller  relating  his 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         165 

experiences.]  She  heard  that  I  had  crossed  over  and  there 
she  was — waiting  for  me.  You're  thinking  of  it,  aren't 
you?  Wondering  if  we  met.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  the 
first  interesting  experience.  She  knew  me  at  once.  "  You 
were  Peter  Grimm,"  she  said,  "  before  you  knew  better  " — 
that's  what  they  call  leaving  this  world — "  to  know  better." 
You  call  it  dying.  [Confidentially.]  She's  been  here  often 
it  seems,  watching  over  you.  I  told  her  how  much  I  loved 
you  and  said  you  had  a  happy  home.  I  spoke  of  your 
future — of  my  plans  for  you  and  Frederik.  "  Peter 
Grimm/'  she  said :  "  you've  overlooked  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world — love.  You  haven't  given  her  her  right 
to  the  choice  of  her  lover — her  right!  "  Then  it  came  over 
me  that  I'd  made  a  terrible  mistake  .  .  .  and  at  that 
minute,  you  called  to  me.  [Impressively.]  In  the  darkness 
surrounding  all  I  had  left  behind,  there  came  a  light  .  .  . 
a  glimmer  where  you  stood  ...  a  clear  call  in  the 

night It  seemed  as  though  I  had  not  been  away 

one  second  .  .  .  but  in  that  second,  you  had  suffered. 
.  .  .  Now  I  am  back  to  show  you  the  way  ...  I  am 
here  to  put  my  hand  on  your  dear  head  and  give  you  your 
mother's  blessing;  to  say  she  will  be  with  you  in  spirit 
until  she  holds  you  in  her  arms — you  and  your  loved  hus 
band —  [CATHERINE  turns  in  her  chair  and  looks  towards  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  JAMES  is  working.  PETER  catches 
the  thought.] — yes,  James,  it's  you.  .  .  .  And  the  mes 
sage  ended  in  this  kiss.  [Prints  a  kiss  on  her  cheek.]  Can't 
you  think  I'm  with  you,  dear  child?  Can't  you  think  I'm 
trying  to  help  you?  Can't  you  even  hope?  O,  come,  at 
least  hope!  Anybody  can  hope. 

[CATHERINE  rises  with  an  entire  change  of 
manner — takes  a  bright  red  blossom  from 
the  vase  on  PETER'S  desk — then  deliber 
ately  walks  to  the  door  of  the  room  in 


166        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

which  JAMES  is  working.  PETER  follows 
her  action  hopefully.  She  does  not  tap  on 
the  door,  however,  but  turns  and  sits  at 
the  piano — in  thought.  She  puts  PETER'S 
flowers  against  her  face.  Then  laying  the 
flowers  on  the  piano.,  sings  softly  three  or 
four  bars  of  the  song  she  sang  in  the  first 
act — and  stops  abruptly. 

CATHERINE.  [To  herself.]  That  I  should  sit  here  sing- 
Ing — at  a  time  like  this! 

PETER.  Sing!  Sing!  Why  not?  Lift  up  your  voice 
like  a  bird !  Your  old  uncle  doesn't  sleep  out  there  in  the 
dust.  That's  only  the  dream.  He's  here — here — alive.  All 
his  age  gone  and  youth  glowing  in  his  heart.  If  I  could 
only  tell  you  what  lies  before  you — before  us  all !  If  people 
even  suspected  what  the  next  life  really  is,  they  wouldn't 
waste  time  here — I  can  tell  you  that.  They'd  do  dreadful 
things  to  get  away  from  this  existence — make  for  the  near 
est  pond  or — [Pausing  abruptly.]  Ah,  here  comes  some 
one  who'll  know  all  about  it!  [The  Doctor  comes  from 
WILLIAM'S  room.  PETER  greets  him  in  a  cordial  but  casual 
way  as  though  he  had  parted  from  him  only  an  hour  be 
fore.]  Well,  Andrew;  I  apologize.  [Bowing  obsequiously.] 
You  are  right.  I  apologize. 

CATHERINE.     How  is  he,  Doctor? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  William  is  better.  Dropped  off  to 
sleep  again.  Can't  quite  understand  him. 

PETER.  I  apologize.  I  said  that  if  I  could  come  back, 
I  would ;  and  here  I  am — apologizing.  Andrew  !  Andrew ! 
[Trying  to  attract  DR.  MACPHERSON'S  attention.]  I  have 
&  message,  but  I  can't  get  it  across.  This  is  your  chance. 
I  want  you  to  take  it.  I  don't  wish  Catherine  to  marry 
Frederik. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     He's  somewhat  feverish  yet. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        167 

PETER.     Can't  you  understand  one  word? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     It's  a  puzzling  case.     .    .    . 

PETER.     What?     Mine? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Getting  a  pad  -from  his  pocket — 
writing  out  a  prescription  with  his  fountain  pen.~\  I'll  leave 
this  prescription  at  the  druggist's — 

PETER.  I'm  quite  shut  out.  .  .  .  They've  closed  the 
door  on  me  and  turned  the  key. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Suddenly  noticing  that  CATHERINE 
seems  more  cheerful.']  What's  happened?  I  left  you  in 
tears  and  here  you  are — all  smiles. 

CATHERINE.  Yes,  I — I  am  happier — for  some  reason. 
.  .  .  For  the  last  few  minutes  I — I've  had  such  a  strange 
feeling. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  That's  odd:  so  have  I!  Been  as 
restless  as  a  hungry  mouse.  Something  seemed  to  draw  me 
down  here — can't  explain  it. 

PETER.     I'm  beginning  to  be  felt  in  this  house. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Catherine:  I  have  the  firm  convic 
tion  that  in  a  very  short  time,  I  shall  hear  from  Peter. 

[Sitting  at  the  table. 

PETER.     I  hope  so.     It's  high  time  now. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  What  I  want  is  some  positive  proof; 
some  absolute  test;  some — er — 

[Thinks.  CATHERINE  has  seated  herself  at 
the  table.  Unconsciously  they  both  oc 
cupy  the  same  seats  as  in  the  first  act. 

PETER.  The  trouble  is  with  other  people,  not  with  us. 
You  want  us  to  give  all  sorts  of  proofs;  and  here  we  are 
just  back  for  a  little  while — very  poorly  put  together — 
quite  confused. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Poor  old  Peter — bless  his  heart! 
[His  elbow  on  the  table  as  though  he  had  been  thinking 
over  the  matter.  CATHERINE  sits  quietly  listening.']  If  he 


168        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

kept  that  compact  with  me,  and  came  back, — do  you  know 
what  I'd  ask  him  first?  If  our  work  goes  on. 

PETER.  Well,  now,  that's  a  regular  sticker.  It  has 
bothered  me  considerably  since  I  crossed  over. 

CATHERINE.     What  do  you  mean,  Doctor? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  The  question  every  man  -wants  the 
answer  to;  what's  to  become  of  me — me — my  work?  Am 
I  going  to  be  a  bone-setter  in  the  next  life  and  he  a  tulip 
man.  ...  I  wonder.  .  .  . 

PETER.  Andrew:  I've  asked  everybody — Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry.  One  spirit  told  me  that  sometimes  our  work  does 
go  on;  but  he  was  an  awful  liar — you  know  we  don't  drop 
our  earth  habits  at  once.  He  said  that  a  genius  is  simply 
a  fellow  who  has  learned  his  business  in  some  other  world 
and  knows  his  business.  Now  then:  [Confidentially  prepar 
ing  to  open  an  argument — sitting  in  his  old  seat  at  the  table, 
as  in  the  first  act.]  it  stands  to  reason,  Andrew,  doesn't  it? 
What  chance  has  the  beginner  compared  with  a  fellow  who 
knew  his  business  before  he  was  born? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Unconsciously  grasping  the  thought.'] 
I  believe  it  is  possible  to  have  more  than  one  chance  at  our 
work. 

PETER.  There  .  .  .  you  caught  that.  .  .  .  Why 
can't  you  take  my  message  to  Catherine? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Rising  to  get  his  shawl — gruffly.] 
Thought  over  what  I  told  you  concerning  this  marriage? 
Not  too  late  to  back  out. 

PETER.     He's  beginning  to  take  the  message. 

CATHERINE.  Everything's  arranged:  I  shall  be  married 
as  Uncle  Peter  wished.  I  shan't  change  my  mind. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Hm  !  [Picks  up  his  shawl. 

PETER.  [Trying  to  detain  the  Doctor — tugging  at  his 
shawl  without  seeming  to  pull  it.]  Don't  give  up !  Don't 
give  up !  A  girl  can  always  change  her  mind — while  there's 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         169 

life.  Don't  give  up!  [The  Doctor  turns,  facing  PETER, 
looking  directly  at  him  as  he  puts  his  hand  in  his  coat 
pocket.]  You  heard  that,  eh?  ...  Didn't  you?  Yes? 
Did  it  cross  over?  .  .  .  What?  ...  It  did?  .  .  . 
You're  looking  me  in  the  face,  Andrew:  can  you  see  me? 
[The  Doctor  takes  a  pencil  out  of  his  pocket,  writes  a 
prescription,  throws  his  shawl  over  his  shoulders — turning 
his  back  towards  PETER  and  facing  CATHERINE.]  Tc!  Tc! 
Tc! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Good  night. 

CATHERINE.     Good  night. 

[CATHERINE  goes  quietly  to  the  fireplace, 
kneeling  down,  mends  the  fire,  and  re 
mains  there  sitting  on  an  ottoman. 

PETER.  [Calling  after  the  Doctor.]  If  I  could  only 
make  some  sign — to  start  you  thinking;  but  I  can't  depend 
upon  you,  I  see  that.  .  .  .  [Then  changing — as  though 
he  had  an  idea.]  Ah  yes!  There  is  another  way.  Now 
to  work.  [With  renewed  activity,  he  taps  in  the  direction 
of  the  office  door,  although  he  himself  stands  three  feet  away 
from  it.  The  door  opens  promptly  and  JAMES  appears  on 
the  threshold — pen  in  hand — as  though  something  had  made 
him  rise  suddenly  from  his  desk.  CATHERINE,  still  seated, 
does  not  see  JAMES  who  stands  looking  at  her — remembering 
that  she  is  to  be  married  on  the  following  day.  Tempting 
JAMES.]  Yes,  she  is  pretty,  James  .  .  .  young  and 
lovely.  .  .  .  Look !  .  .  .  There  are  kisses  tangled  in 
her  hair  where  it  curls  .  .  .  hundreds  of  them.  .  .  . 
Are  you  going  to  let  her  go  ?  Her  lips  are  red  with  the  red 
of  youth.  Every  smile  is  an  invocation  to  life.  Who  could 
resist  her  smiles?  Can  you,  James?  No:  you  will  not  let 
her  go.  And  her  hands,  James.  .  .  .  Look!  Hands 
made  to  clasp  and  cling  to  yours.  Imagine  her  little  feet 
trudging  happily  about  your  home.  .  .  .  Look  at  her 


170        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

shoulders  ...  shaped  for  a  resting  place  for  a  little 
head.  .  .  .  You  were  right,  James :  we  should  ask  nothing 
of  our  girls  but  to  marry  the  men  they  love  and  be  happy 
wives  and  happy  mothers  of  happy  children.  You  feel 
what  I  am  saying.  .  .  .  You  couldn't  live  without  her, 
could  you?  No?  Very  well,  then — [Changing  abruptly.] 
Now:  it's  your  turn. 

[JAMES  pauses  a  moment.  There  is  silence. 
Then  he  comes  forward  a  step  and 
CATHERINE,  hearing  him,  turns  and  rises. 

JAMES.      [Coldly — respectfully.]      Miss    Grimm.     .    .    . 

CATHERINE.    James.     .    .    . 

JAMES.  I  felt  that  you  were  here  and  wished  to  speak 
to  me.  .  .  .  I — I  don't  know  why.  .  .  . 

PETER.     Good  for  James. 

CATHERINE.  [Shaking  hands  with  him."]  I'm  very  glad 
to  see  you  again,  James.  [When  PETER  sees  that  he  has 
brought  the  two  young  people  together,  he  stands  in  the 
background.  The  lovers  are  in  the  shadow,  but  PETER'S 
figure  is  marked  and  clear.]  Why  did  you  go  away? 

JAMES.     O — er — 

CATHERINE.    And  without  saying  a  word? 

JAMES.  Your  uncle  sent  me  away.  I  told  him  the  truth 
again. 

CATHERINE.     O.     .    .    . 

JAMES.     I  am  going  in  a  few  hours. 

CATHERINE.  Where  are  you  going?  What  do  you  in 
tend  to  do? 

JAMES.  [Half  heartedly.]  Father  and  I  are  going  to 
try  our  luck  together.  We're  going  to  start  with  a  small 
fruit  farm.  It  will  give  me  a  chance  to  experiment.  .  .  . 

CATHERINE.  It  will  seem  very  strange  when  I  come  back 
home  .  .  .  uncle  gone  .  .  .  and  you,  James. 

[Her  voice  trembling. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        171 

JAMES.     I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  Catherine. 

CATHERINE.  James:  uncle  died  smiling  at  me — thinking 
of  me  ...  and  just  before  he  went,  he  gave  me  his 
mother's  wedding  ring  and  asked  me  to  marry  Frederik. 
I  shall  never  forget  how  happy  he  was  when  I  promised. 
That  was  all  he  wanted.  His  last  smile  was  for  me  .  .  . 
and  there  he  sat — still  smiling  after  he  was  gone  .  .  . 
the  smile  of  a  man  leaving  the  world  perfectly  satisfied — 
at  peace.  It's  like  a  hand  on  my  heart — hurting  it — when 
I  question  anything  he  wanted.  I  couldn't  meet  him  in  the 
hereafter  if  I  didn't  do  everything  he  wished.  I  couldn't 
say  my  prayers  at  night ;  I  couldn't  speak  his  name  in  them. 
.  .  .  He  trusted  me;  depended  upon  me;  did  everything 
for  me ;  so  I  must  do  this  for  him.  ...  I  wanted  you  to 
know  this,  James,  because  .  .  . 

JAMES.     Why  haven't  you  told  Frederik  the  truth? 

CATHERINE.    I  have. 

JAMES.  That  you  don't  love  him?  [CATHERINE  doesn't 
answer,  but  JAMES  knozvs.]  .  .  .  And  he's  willing  to  take 
you  like  that? — a  little  girl  like  you — in  that  way?  .  .  . 
God!  He's  rotten  all  the  way  through.  He's  even  worse 
than  I  thought.  Katie:  I  didn't  mean  to  say  a  word  of 
this  to-day — not  a  word;  but  a  moment  since — something; 
made  me  change  my  mind — I  don't  know  what!  .  .  . 
[PETER  smiles.]  I  felt  that  I  must  talk  to  you.  You  looked 
so  young,  so  helpless,  such  a  child.  You've  never  had  to 
think  for  yourself — you  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  You 
couldn't  live  under  it,  Catherine.  You're  making  the  great 
est  mistake  possible,  if  you  marry  without  love.  Why 
should  you  carry  out  your  uncle's  plans?  You're  going  to 
be  wretched  for  life  to  please  a  dead  man  who  doesn't  know 
it;  or,  if  he  does  know  it,  regrets  it  bitterly. 

PETER.     I  agree  with  you  now,  James. 

CATHERINE.     You  mustn't  say  that,  James. 


172        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

JAMES.  But  I  will  say  it — I  will  speak  my  mind.  I 
don't  care  how  fond  you  were  of  your  uncle  or  how  much 
he  did  for  you, — it  wasn't  right  to  ask  this  of  you.  It 
wasn't  fair.  The  whole  thing  is  the  mistake  of  a  very 
obstinate  old  man. 
CATHERINE.  James ! 

JAMES.  I  loved  him,  too;  but  he  was  an  obstinate  old 
man.  Sometimes  I  think  it  was  the  Dutch  blood  in  his 
veins. 

PETER.  A  very  frank,  outspoken,  fellow.  I  like  to  hear 
him  talk — now. 

JAMES.  Do  you  know  why  I  was  sent  away?  Why  I 
quarrelled  with  your  uncle  ?  I  said  that  I  loved  you  .  .  . 
he  asked  me  ...  I  didn't  tell  him  because  I  had  any 
hopes — I  hadn't  ...  I  haven't  now.  .  .  .  [Struck.] 
But  in  spite  of  what  I'm  saying  ...  I  don't  know  what 
makes  me  think  that  I  ....  I  could  take  you  in  my 
arms  and  you  would  let  me  .  .  .  but  I  do  think  it. 

CATHERINE.  [Retreats,  backing  towards  PETER.]  No! 
.  .  .  Don't  touch  me,  James — you  mustn't !  Don't  .  .  . 
Don't! 

[PETER  pushes  her  into  JAMES'S  arms,  with 
out  touching  her.  She  exclaims  "  Oh, 
James!  "  and  fairly  runs  towards  JAMES 
as  though  violently  propelled.  In  reality, 
she  thinks  that  she  is  yielding  to  an  im 
pulse.  As  she  reaches  him,  she  exclaims 
"  No!  "  and  turns  back,  but  JAMES,  with 
outstretched  arms,  catches  her. 
JAMES.  You  love  me.  [Draws  her  to  him. 

CATHERINE.     Don't  make  me  say  that,  James. 
JAMES.     I  will  make  you  say  it !    You  do  love  me. 
CATHERINE.     No  matter  if  I  do,  that  won't  alter  matters. 
JAMES.     What?     What? 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        173 

CATHERINE.  No,  no,  don't  say  any  more.  ...  I  won't 
hear  it.  [She  stands  free  of  JAMES — then  turns  and  walks 
to  the  stairs.]  Good-bye,  Jim. 

JAMES.     Do  you  mean  it?    Are  you  really  going  to  sacri 
fice  yourself  because  of — Am  I  really  losing  you?     . 
Catherine !     Catherine ! 

CATHERINE.  [In  tears — beseechingly.]  Please  don't. 
.  .  .  Please  don't.  .  .  . 

[FREDERIK  enters.  Until  the  entrance  of 
FREDERIK,  PETER  has  had  hope  in  his 
face,  but  now  he  begins  to  feel  appre 
hensive. 

FREDERIK.      [Throwing  his  hat  and  coat  in  a  chair.]      I 
have  some  work  to  do — more  of  my  uncle's  unopened  mail; 
then  I'll  join  you,  Hartman.     We  must — er — make  haste. 
[JAMES  looks  at  CATHERINE,  then  at  FRED- 
ERIK.     CATHERINE  gives  him  an  imploring 
look — urging   him   not   to   speak.      FRED- 
ERIK  has  gone  to  PETER'S  desk. 

JAMES.     I'll  come  back  later.  [Goes  towards  the  hall. 

FREDERIK.    Catherine:  have  you  asked  James  to  be  pres 
ent  at  the  ceremony  to-morrow? 
CATHERINE.     No. 
FREDERIK.     James,  will  you — 
JAMES.     I  shall  be  leaving  early  in  the  morning. 
FREDERIK.     Too  bad! 

[Exit  JAMES.  FREDERIK  lights  the  desk 
candles,  takes  the  mail  out  of  the  drawer 
— opens  two  letters — tears  them  up  after 
barely  glancing  at  them — then  sees 
CATHERINE  still  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs — her  back  to  him.  He  lays  the 
cigar  on  the  desk,  crosses  and  taking  her 
in  his  arms,  kisses  her. 


174        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

CATHERINE.  [With  a  revulsion  of  feeling.]  No!  No! 
No !  [She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands — trying  to  control 
herself.]  Please !  *  .  .  Not  now.  .  .  . 

FREDERIK.  Why  not  now?  [Suspiciously.]  Has  Hart- 
man  been  talking  to  you?  What  has  he  been  saying  to  you? 
[CATHERINE  starts  slowly  up  the  stairs.]  Wait  a  moment, 
please.  .  .  .  [As  she  retreats  a  step  up  the  stairs  he 
follows  her.]  Do  you  really  imagine  you — you  care  for 
that  fellow? 

CATHERINE.     Don't — please. 

FREDERIK.  I'm  sorry  to  insist.  Of  course,  I  knew  there 
was  a  sort  of  school-girl  attachment  on  your  part;  .  .  . 
that  you'd  known  each  other  since  childhood.  I  don't  take 
it  at  all  seriously.  In  three  months,  you'll  forget  him. 
I  must  insist,  however,  that  you  do  not  speak  to  him  again 
to-night.  After  to-morrow — after  we  are  married — I'm 
quite  sure  that  you  will  not  forget  you  are  my  wife,  Cath 
erine, — my  wife. 

CATHERINE.     I  shan't  forget. 

[She  escapes  into  her  room.  FREDERIK  goes  to  his  desk. 
PETER.  [Confronting  FREDERIK.]  Now,  sir,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,,  Frederik  Grimm,  my  beloved 
nephew!  I  had  to  die  to  find  you  out;  but  I  know  you! 
[FREDERIK  is  reading  a  letter.]  You  sit  there  opening  a 
dead  man's  mail — with  the  heart  of  a  stone — thinking: 
"  He's  gone !  He's  gone ! — so  I'll  break  every  promise !  " 
But  there  is  something  you  have  forgotten — something  that 
always  finds  us  out:  the  law  of  reward  and  punishment. 
Even  now  it  is  overtaking  you.  Your  hour  has  struck. 
[FREDERIK  takes  up  another  letter  and  begins  to  read  it; 
then,  as  though  disturbed  by  a  passing  thought,  he  puts  it 
down.  As  though  perplexed  by  the  condition  of  his  own 
mind,  he  ponders,  his  eyes  resting  unconsciously  on  PETER.] 
Your  hour  has  struck. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        175 

FREDERIK.      [To   himself.]      What  in  the  world   is   the 
matter  with  me  to-night? 
PETER.     Read ! 

FREDERIK.  [Has  opened  a  long  narrow  blue  envelope 
containing  a  letter  on  blue  paper  and  a  small  photograph. 
He  stares  at  the  letter,  aghast.]  My  God!  Here's  luck. 
.  .  .  Here's  luck!  From  that  girl  Annamarie  to  my 
uncle.  Oh,  if  he  had  read  it ! 

PETER.  [Standing  in  front  of  FREDERIK— looks  into 
space — as  though  reading  the  letter  in  the  air.]  "  Dear 
Mr.  Grimm :  I  have  not  written  because  I  can't  do  anything 
to  help  William  and  I  am  ashamed." 

FREDERIK.  Wh !  [As  though  he  had  read  the  first  part 
to  himself,  now  reads  aloud.]  "  Don't  be  too  hard  upon 
me.  ...  I  have  gone  hungry  trying  to  save  a  few 
pennies  for  him,  but  I  never  could;  and  now  I  see  that  I 
cannot  hope  to  have  him  back.  William  is  far  better  off 
with  you.  I-  [Hesitates. 

PETER.  [Going  back  of  the  desk,  standing  behind  FRED- 
ERIK'S  chair.]  Go  on.  ... 

FREDERIK.  "  I  wish  that  I  might  see  him  once  again. 
Perhaps  I  could  come  and  go  in  the  night." 

PETER.  That's  a  terrible  thing  for  a  mother  to  write. 
FREDERIK.  [Who  has  been  looking  down  at  the  letter- 
suddenly  feeling  PETER'S  presence.]  Who's  that?  Who's 
in  this  room?  [Looks  over  his  shoulder— then  glances 
about.]  I  could  have  sworn  somebody  was  looking  over  my 
shoulder  ...  or  had  come  in  at  the  door  ...  or  ... 
[But  seeing  no  one — he  continues.]  "  I  met  someone  from 
home  ...  if  there  is  any  truth  in  the  rumor  of  Cath 
erine's  marriage— it  mustn't  be,  Mr.  Grimm— it  mustn't  be 
...  not  to  Frederik.  For  Frederik  is  my  little  boy's — " 
[FREDERIK  gives  a  furtive  glance  upstairs  at  the  door  of 
the  child's  room.  Picks  up  the  small  picture  which  was  in 


176        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

the  envelope.]     Her  picture.    .    .    .     [  Turns  it  over — looks 
at  back — reads."]     "  For  my  boy,  from  Annamarie." 

[FREDERIK,  conscience  stricken  for  the  time 
being,  bows  his  head. 

PETER.  For  the  first  time  since  I  entered  this  house,  you 
are  yourself,  Frederik  Grimm.  Once  more  a  spark  of  man 
hood  is  alight  in  your  soul.  Courage !  It's  not  too  late  to 
repent.  Turn  back,  lad !  Follow  your  impulse.  Take  the 
little  boy  in  your  arms.  Go  down  on  your  knees  and  ask 
his  mother's  pardon.  Turn  over  a  fresh  page,  that  I  may 
leave  this  house  in  peace.  .  .  . 

FREDERIK.  [Looks  about  uneasily,  then  glances  towards 
the  door  leading  into  the  hall.]  Who  is  at  the  door  ?  Curi 
ous.  ...  I  thought  I  heard  someone  at  ... 

PETER.  I  am  at  the  door — I,  Peter  Grimm !  Annamarie 
is  at  the  door, — the  little  girl  who  is  ashamed  to  come  home ; 
the  old  mother  in  the  kitchen  breaking  her  heart  for  some 
word.  William  is  at  the  door — your  own  flesh  and  blood — 
nameless ;  Katie,  sobbing  her  heart  out — you  can  hear  her ; 
all — we  are  all  at  the  door — every  soul  in  this  house.  We 
are  all  at  the  door  of  your  conscience,  Frederik.  .  .  . 
Don't  keep  us  waiting,  my  boy.  It's  very  hard  to  kill  the 
love  I  had  for  you.  I  long  to  love  you  again — to  take  you 
back  to  my  heart — lies  and  all.  [FREDERIK  rises — in  deep 
thought.]  Yes !  Call  her !  Tell  her  the  truth.  Give  her 
back  her  promise.  .  .  .  Give  her  back  her  home.  .  .  . 
Close  the  door  on  a  peaceful,  happy,  silent  room  and  go. 
Think — think  of  that  moment  when  you  gave  her  back  her 
freedom!  Think  of  her  joy,  her  gratitude,  her  affection. 
It's  worth  living  for,  lad.  Speak!  Make  haste  and  call 
her,  Fritz.  [FREDERIK  takes  several  steps — then  turns  back 
to  the  desk.  He  tears  the  letter  in  two,  muttering  to  him 
self:  "  Damn  the  woman,"  and  sinks  into  his  chair.]  Fred 
erik  Grimm:  stand  up  before  me!  [FREDERIK  starts  to  rise, 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        177 

but  changes  his  mind.]  Stand  up!  [FREDERIK  me* — not 
knowing  why  he  has  risen.  Pointing  an  accusing  finger  at 
FREDERIK.]  Liar  to  the  dead!  Cheat,  thief,  hypocrite! 
You  shan't  have  my  little  girl.  You  only  want  her  for  a 
week,  a  day,  an  hour.  I  refuse.  I  have  come  back  to  take 
her  from  you  and  you  cannot  put  me  to  rest.  ...  I 
have  come  back.  .  .  .  You  cannot  drive  me  from  your 
thoughts— I  am  there.  .  .  .  [Tapping  his  forehead, 
without  touching  it.]  I  am  looking  over  your  shoulder. 
...  In  at  the  window  .  .  .  under  the  door.  .  . 
You  are  breathing  me  in  the  air.  ...  I  am  looking  at 
your  heart.  [He  brings  his  clenched  fst  down  on  the  desk 
in  answer  to  FREDERIK'S  gesture;  but  despite  the  seeming 
violence  of  the  blow,  he  makes  no  sound.]  Hear  me !  You 
shall  hear  me!  Hear  me!  [Calling  loudly.]  Hear  me! 
Hear  me !  Hear  me  !  Will  nobody  hear  me !  Is  there  no 
one  in  this  house  to  hear  me?  No  one?  Has  my  journey 
been  in  vain  ?  [For  the  first  time  fully  realizing  the  situa 
tion.]  Oh,  must  we  stand  or  fall  by  the  mistakes  we  made 
here  and  the  deeds  we  did?  Is  there  no  second  chance  in 
this  world? 

FREDERIK.     [With  a  sneer  on  his  lips  as  though  trying  to 
banish  his  thoughts.]      Psh  ! 

[MARTA  enters  with  a  tray  containing  a  pot 
of  coffee  and  a  plate  of  small  cakes. 
PETER,  who  has  watched  her  with  ap 
pealing  eyes,  like  a  dog  craving  attention, 
glances  from  her  to  the  desk  and  from  the 
desk  back  to  MARTA — trying  to  tempt  her 
to  look  at  the  torn  letter.  FREDERIK,  deep 
in  thought,  does  not  notice  her.  PETER 
points  to  the  desk  as  though  to  say 
"  Look!  "  After  a  pause  she  picks  up  the 
picture  and  the  letter — holding  them  in 


178        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

one  hand  to  clear  a  spot  for  the  tray  which 
she  is  about  to  set  on  the  desk. 

PETER.  [Speaking  in  a  hushed  voice.]  Marta:  see  what 
you  have  in  your  hand  .  .  .  that  letter  .  .  .  there 
read  it.  ...  Run  to  Catherine  with  it.  Read  it 
from  the  house-tops.  .  .  .  The  letter.  .  .  .  Look! 
There  you  have  the  story  of  Annamarie.  ...  It  is  the 
one  way  to  know  the  truth  in  this  house — the  only  way. 
.  .  .  There  in  your  hand — the  letter.  ...  He  will 
never  speak.  .  .  .  The  letter  for  Catherine. 

[MARTA  sets  down  the  picture  and  the  letter; 
but  something  prompts  her  to  look  at 
them;  however,  before  she  can  carry  out 
her  impulse,  FREDERIK  starts  up. 

FREDERIK.     My  God!     How  you  startled  me!     [MARTA 
sets  down  the  tray.]     Oh!     To  be  off  and  out  of  this  old 
rat-trap.     [He  wipes  his  forehead  with  his  black  bordered 
handkerchief.]      I    mean — our   loss   comes    home   to   us   so 
keenly  here  where  we  are  accustomed  to  see  him. 
MARTA.     A  cup  of  coffee,  sir? 
FREDERIK.    No,  no,  no. 

MARTA.  [Pathetically.]  I  thought  you  wished  to  keep 
to  your  uncle's  customs.  ...  He  always  took  it  at  this 
time. 

FREDERIK.      [Recovering.]     Yes,  yes,  of  course. 
MARTA.     ...    No  word?     .    .    . 
FREDERIK.      [Hesitates.]     What  do  you  mean? 
MARTA.     No  letter? 

FREDERIK.  Letter?  .  .  .  [Covering  the  letter  with  his 
hand.]  From  whom?  .  .  . 

MARTA.     From.     ...    At  a  time  like  this,  I  thought. 
I    left     .    .    .    that    Annamarie     .    .    .     that   there 
should  be   some  message.     .    .    .    Every  day   I   expect  to 
hear.    .    .    . 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        179 

FREDERIK.     No. 

[PETER  gestures  to  MARTA — pointing  to  the 
picture  and  letter,  now  covered  by  FRED- 
ERIK'S  hand. 

MARTA.      [Hesitating.]     Are  you  certain? 

FREDERIK.  Quite  certain.  [She  curtsies  and  leaves  the 
room.  FREDERIK,  as  though  relieved  to  see  her  go,  jumps 
to  his  feet  and  tearing  the  letter  in  smaller  pieces,  lights 
them  in  the  candle,  dropping  the  burning  pieces  on  a  tray. 
As  the  flames  die  out,  FREDERIK  brushes  the  blackened 
paper  into  the  waste  basket.]  There's  an  end  to  that! 
[PETER  crouches  near  the  basJcet  hovering  over  it,  his  hands 
clasped  helplessly.  After  a  pause,  he  raises  his  hand,  until 
it  points  to  a  bedroom  above.  An  echo  of  the  circus  music 
is  faintly  heard;  not  with  the  blaring  of  brasses,  but  with 
the  sounds  of  elfn  horns,  conveying  the  impression  of  a 
phantom  circus  band.  The  door  of  WILLIAM'S  room  opens 
and  he  comes  out  as  though  to  listen  to  the  music.  He  wears 
a  sleeping  suit  and  is  bare-footed.  He  has  come  down 
stairs  before  FREDERIK  sees  him.  FREDERIK  quickly  puts 
aside  the  photograph,  laying  it  on  the  desk,  covering  it  with 
his  hand.  Gruffly.]  Why  aren't  you  in  bed?  If  you're 
ill,  that's  the  proper  place  for  you. 

WILLIAM.    I  came  down  to  hear  the  circus  music. 

FREDERIK.     Circus  music? 

WILLIAM.    It  woke  me  up. 

FREDERIK.  The  circus  left  town  days  ago.  You  must 
have  been  dreaming. 

WILLIAM.  The  band's  playing  now.  Don't  you  hear  it, 
sir?  The  procession's  passing.  [He  runs  to  the  window 
and  opens  it.  The  music  stops.  A  breeze  sweeps  through 
the  room — bellies  out  the  curtains  and  causes  the  lustres  to 
jingle  on  the  mantel.  Surprised.]  No.  It's  almost  dark. 
There's  no  procession  ...  no  shining  horses.  .  .  . 


180        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[Turns  sadly  away  from  the  window. ]  I  wonder  what 
made  me  think  the — I  must  have  been  dreaming.  [Rubbing 
his  eyes.] 

FREDERIK.  [Goes  to  the  window,  closes  it.  The  child 
looks  at  him  and  in  retreating  from  him,  unconsciously  backs 
towards  PETER.]  Are  you  feeling  better? 

WILLIAM.     Yes,  sir,  I  feel  better — and  hungry. 

FREDERIK.     Go  back  to  bed. 

WILLIAM.    Yes,  sir.  [FREDERIK  sits. 

PETER.     Where's  your  mother,  William? 

WILLIAM.     Do  you  know  where  Annamarie  is? 

PETER.    Ah ! 

FREDERIK.  Why  do  you  ask  me?  What  should  I  know 
of  her? 

WILLIAM.  Grandmother  doesn't  know;  Miss  Catherine 
doesn't  know ;  nobody  knows. 

FREDERIK.     I  don't  know,  either. 

[Tears  up  the  picture — turning  so  that  WIL 
LIAM  does  not  see  what  he  is  doing. 
PETER,  who  has  been  smiling  at  WILLIAM, 
motions  him  to  come  closer.  WILLIAM, 
feeling  PETER'S  presence,  looks  around 
the  room. 

WILLIAM.     Mr.  Frederik:  where's  old  Mr.  Grimm? 

FREDERIK.     Dead. 

WILLIAM.  Are  you  sure  he's  dead?  'Cause — [Puzzled 
— unable  to  explain  himself,  he  hesitates.] 

FREDERIK.     [Annoyed."]     You'd  better  go  to  bed. 

WILLIAM.  [Pointing  to  a  glass  of  water  on  a  tray.]  Can 
I  have  a  drink  of  water,  please  ? 

FREDERIK.  Go  to  bed,  sir,  or  you'll  be  punished.  Water's 
not  good  for  little  boys  with  fever. 

WILLIAM.  [Going  towards  the  stairs.]  Wish  I  could 
find  a  cold  brook  and  lie  in  it. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         181 

[Goes  slowly  up  the  stairs.  FREDERIK  -would 
destroy  the  pieces  of  the  picture;  but 
PETER  faces  him  as  though  forbidding  him 
to  touch  it,  and  -for  the  first  time,  FRED- 
ERIK  imagines  he  sees  the  apparition  of 
his  uncle. 

FREDERIK.  [In  a  very  low  voice — almost  inaudibly.] 
My  God !  I  thought  I  saw.  .  .  . 

[Receding   a   step   and  yet   another  step   as 
the  vision  of  PETER  is  still  before  him, 
he    passes    out    of    the    room,    wipes    the 
beads  of  sweat  from  his  forehead.     WIL 
LIAM,  hearing  the  door  close,  comes  down 
stairs  and  running  to  the  table  at  back, 
drinks  a  glass  of  water. 
WILLIAM.     Urn!     That's  good! 
PETER.     William ! 

WILLIAM.  [Doesn't  see  PETER  yet,  but  he  feels  his 
presence.]  Wish  it  had  been  the  circus  music. 

PETER.  You  shall  hear  it  all  again.  [Gestures  towards 
the  plate  of  cakes  on  the  tray.]  Come,  William,  here's 
something  very  nice. 

WILLIAM.     [Seeing  the  cakes.]     Um!     Cakes! 

[He  steals  to  the  tray,  looking  over  his  shoul 
der  in  fear  of  being  caught. 

PETER.  Don't  be  frightened.  I'm  here  to  protect  you. 
Help  yourself  to  the  cakes.  William:  do  you  think  you 
could  deliver  a  message  for  me  ...  a  very  important 
message.  .  .  . 

[The  circus  music  is  heard.  WILLIAM  sits  at 
the  table  near  the  tray,  and  PETER  seats 
himself  opposite  as  though  he  were  the 
host  doing  the  honors.  WILLIAM,  being 
unconsciously  coaxed  by  PETER,  is  pre- 


182        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

vailed  upon   to   choose   the   biggest   cake. 
He  takes  a  bite,  looking  towards  PETER. 

WILLIAM.  [To  himself.]  Ha!  ...  Think  I  am 
>dreaming.  [Rubbing  his  little  stomach  ecstatically.']  Hope 
I  won't  wake  up  and  find  there  wasn't  any  cake. 

PETER.  Don't  worry:  you  won't.  [WILLIAM  has  taken 
.another  piece  of  cake  which  he  nibbles  at — now  holding  a 
piece  in  each  hand.]  Pretty  substantial  dream,  eh?  There's 
a  fine,  fat  raisin.  [WILLIAM  eats  the  raisin,  then  looks  into 
the  sugar  bowl.]  Don't  hesitate,  William.  Sugar  won't 
hurt  you  now.  Nothing  can  hurt  you  any  more.  Fall  to, 
William — help  yourself.  [WILLIAM  looks  over  his  shoulder, 
fearing  the  return  of  FREDERIK.]  O,  he  won't  come  back 
in  a  hurry.  Ha!  Frederik  thought  he  saw  me,  William; 
well,  he  didn't.  He  had  a  bad  conscience — hallucination. 
[WILLIAM  nibbles  a  lump  of  sugar.]  Now,  William:  I  have 
.a  message  for  you.  Won't  you  try  and  take  it  for  me,  eh? 
[But  WILLIAM  eats  another  lump  of  sugar.]  I  see.  .  .  . 
I  can't  expect  to  get  any  assistance  from  a  boy  while  his 
little  stomach's  calling.  [WILLIAM  empties  the  cream  jug 
.and  helps  himself  to  cakes.  Presently  the  music  dies  out.] 
Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  [Impressively*] 
You're  a  very  lucky  boy,  William ;  I  congratulate  you.  Do 
you  know  why — of  all  this  household — you  are  the  only  one' 
to  help  me?  .  .  .  This  is  the  secret:  in  a  little  time- 
it  won't  be  long — you're  going — [As  though  he  were  impart 
ing  the  most  delightful  information.] — to  know  better! 
Think  of  that!  Isn't  the  news  splendid?  [But  WILLIAM 
eats  on.]  Think  of  what  most  of  us  have  to  endure  before 
we  know  better !  Why,  William :  you're  going  into  the  circus 
without  paying  for  a  ticket.  You're  laying  down  the  burden 
before  you  climb  the  hill.  And  in  your  case,  William,  you 
are  fortunate  indeed;  for  there  are  some  little  soldiers  in 
this  world  already  handicapped  when  they  begin  the  battle 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         183 

of  life.  .  .  .  Their  parents  haven't  fitted  them  for  the 
struggle.  .  .  .  Like  little  moon  moths, — they  look  in 
at  the  windows ;  they  beat  at  the  panes ;  they  see  the  lights 
of  happy  firesides — the  lights  of  home,  but  they  never  get 
in.  ...  You  are  one  of  these  wanderers,  William. 
.  .  .  And  so,  it  is  well  for  you  that  before  your  playing 
time  is  over — before  your  man's  work  begins, — you're  going 
to  know  the  great  secret.  Happy  boy !  No  coarsening  of 
your  child's  heart,  until  you  stand  before  the  world  like 
Frederik;  no  sweat  and  toil  such  as  dear  old  James  is 
facing;  no  dimming  of  the  eye  and  trembling  of  the  hand 
such  as  the  poor  old  Doctor  shall  know  in  time  to  come ;  no 
hot  tears  to  blister  your  eyes  .  .  .  tears  such  as  Katie 
is  shedding  now;  but  in  all  your  youth,  your  faith — your 
innocence, — you'll  fall  asleep  and  oh!  the  awakening,  Wil 
liam  !  ...  "It  is  well  with  the  child/'  [WILLIAM  lays 
down  the  cake  and  clapping  his  hands,  thinks.  PETER 
answers  his  thoughts.]  What?  No — don't  think  of  it! 
Nonsense !  You  don't  want  to  grow  up  to  be  a  man.  Grow 
up  to  fail?  Or,  still  worse — to  succeed — to  be  famous? 
To  wear  a  heavy  laurel  wreath  ?  A  wreath  to  be  held  up  by 
tired  hands  that  ache  for  one  hour's  freedom.  No,  no: 
you're  to  escape  all  that,  William:  joy  is  on  the  way  to 
meet  you  with  sweets  in  its  outstretched  hands  and  laughter 
on  its  lips.  [WILLIAM  takes  the  last  swallow  of  a  piece  of 
cake,  exclaims  "  Hm! "  in  a  satisfied  way,  brushes  the 
crumbs  off  his  lap,  and  sits  back  in  his  chair.]  Have  you 
had  enough  ?  Good !  William :  I  want  you  to  try  to  under 
stand  that  you're  to  help  me,  will  you?  Will  you  tell  Miss 
Catherine  that — 

WILLIAM.  [Without  looking  up,  his  hands  folded  in  his 
lap.]  Take  me  back  with  you,  Mr.  Grimm? 

PETER.     Can  you  see  me,  William? 

WILLIAM.     No  sir;  but  I  know. 


184,        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

PETER.  Come  here.  [WILLIAM  doesn't  move.]  Here 
.  .  .  here  .  .  .  [WILLIAM  advances  to  the  center  of 
the  room  and  pauses  hesitatingly.]  Take  my  hand  .  .  . 
[WILLIAM  approaches  in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  PETER 
takes  WILLIAM'S  outstretched  hand.]  Have  you  got  it? 

WILLIAM.     No,  sir     ... 

PETER.  [Putting  his  hand  on  WILLIAM'S  head.]  Now? 
.  .  .  Do  you  feel  it? 

WILLIAM.  I  feel  something:  yes,,  sir.  [Puts  his  hand  on 
PETER'S  hand  which  is  still  on  his  head.]  But  where's 
your  hand?  There's  nothing  there. 

PETER.     But  you  hear  me? 

WILLIAM.  I  can't  really  hear  you.  .  .  .  It's  a  dream. 
\_Coaxingly.~]  O,  Mr.  Grimm:  take  me  back  with  you. 

PETER.  You're  not  quite  ready  to  go  with  me  yet, 
William — not  until  we  can  see  each  other  face  to  face. 

WILLIAM.  Why  did  you  come  back,  Mr.  Grimm?  Wasn't 
it  nice  where  you  were? 

PETER.  It  was  indeed.  It  was  like — [Whimsically.] 
— new  toys. 

WILLIAM.  [To  whom  the  idea  appeals.]  As  nice  as 
that! 

PETER.  Nicer.  But  I  had  to  come  back  with  this  mes 
sage.  I  want  you  to  help  me  to  deliver  it. 

[Indicating  the  picture. 

WILLIAM.  Where's  the  bosom  of  Abraham,  Mr. 
Grimm  ? 

PETER.     Eh? 

WILLIAM.     The  minister  says  you're  asleep  there. 

PETER.  Stuff  and  nonsense !  I  haven't  been  near  the 
bosom  of  Abraham. 

WILLIAM.  Too  bad  you  died  before  you  went  to  the 
circus,  Mr.  Grimm.  But  it  must  be  great  to  be  in  a  place 
where  you  can  look  down  and  see  the  circus  for  nothing. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        185 

Do  you  remember  the  clown  that  sang:  "  Uncle   Rat  has 
gone  to  town  ?  " 

PETER.  Yes,  indeed;  but  let  us  talk  of  something  more 
important.  Come  here,  William:  [He  starts  towards  the 
desk]  would  you  like  to  see  someone  whom  all  little  boys 
love — love  more  than  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world? 

[PETER  is  standing  at  the  desk  with  his  finger 
on  the  torn  pieces  of  the  picture.'] 

WILLIAM.  Yes,  the  clown  in  the  circus.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 
it  isn't  a  clown  .  .  .  it's  our  mother.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
want  to  see  my  mother,  Annamarie.  [Unconsciously  WIL 
LIAM  comes  to  the  desk  and  sees  the  torn  picture — picks 
up  a  piece  and  looks  at  it.  Very  simply.']  Why  .  .  . 
there  she  is !  ...  That's  her  face. 

PETER.  Ah!  You  recognize  her.  Mother's  face  is 
there,  William,  but  it's  in  little  bits.  We  must  put  her 
together,  William.  We  must  show  her  to  everybody  in  the 
house,  so  that  everybody  will  say:  "How  in  the  world 
did  she  ever  get  here?  To  whom  does  this  picture  belong?  " 
We  must  set  them  to  thinking. 

WILLIAM.  Yes.  Let  us  show  her  to  everybody.  [He 
sits  and  joins  the  pieces  under  the  guidance  of  PETER.] 
Annamarie  .  .  .  Annamarie  .  .  . 

PETER.  You  remember  many  things,  William  .... 
things  that  happened  when  you  lived  with  Annamarie,  don't 
you? 

WILLIAM.     I  was  very  little.     .    .    . 

PETER.     Still,  you  remember.     .    .    . 

WILLIAM.     [Evasively.]     I  was  afraid.     .    .    . 

PETER.     You  loved  her. 

WILLIAM.  [To  the  picture.]  O,  yes  .  .  .  yes,  I  loved 
you. 

PETER.  Now,  through  that  miracle  of  love,  you  can  re 
member  many  things  tucked  away  in  your  childish  brain, 


186        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

— things  laid  away  in  your  mind  like  toys  upon  a  shelf. 
Come:  pick  them  up  and  dust  them  off  and  bring  them 
out  again.  It  will  come  back.  When  you  lived  with 
Annamarie  .  .  .  there  was  you  .  .  .  and  Annamarie 
.  .  .  and — 

WILLIAM.    — and  the  other  one? 

PETER.  Ah !  We're  getting  nearer !  Who  was  the  other 
one? 

WILLIAM.  [Gives  a  quick  glance  towards  the  door — 
then  as  though  speaking  to  the  picture."]  I  must  put  you 
together  before  he  comes  back.  [He  fits  the  other  pieces 
together — PETER  trying  to  guide  him.  Presently  WILLIAM 
hums  as  a  child  will  when  at  play,  singing  the  tune  of 
"  Uncle  Rat."]  "  Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town." 

PETER.     WILLIAM.      [Singing  together.]      "Ha!   Hm!" 
[At  this  instant  PETER  is  indicating  another 

piece  of  the  picture.] 

WILLIAM.     Her  other  foot.     [Then  sings.] 
"  Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 

To  buy  his  niece  a  wedding  gown." 
[Adjusting  a  piece  of  the  picture.]     Her  hand. 
PETER.     WILLIAM.     [Together.]     "Ha!     Hm ! " 
WILLIAM.    Her  other  hand.     [Sings.] 

"  What  shall  the  wedding  breakfast  be? 

Hard  boiled  eggs  and — " 
[Speaking.]     Where's — 

[Pauses — looking  for  a  piece  of  the  picture. 
PETER.     [Finishing  the  verse.]     "  A  cup  of  tea." 

[With  a  gesture  as  though  knocking  on  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  room  to  attract  MRS. 
BATHOLOMMEY'S  attention. 
WILLIAM.     [Speaks.]     There's  her  hat. 
PETER.     WILLIAM.     [Together.]     "Ha!     Hm!" 
WILLIAM.      [Stops    singing    and    claps    his    hands    with 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         187' 

boyish  delight — staring  at  the  picture.]  Annamarie!  Anna- 
marie!  You're  not  in  bits  any  more — you're  all  put  to 
gether. 

[By  this  time  PETER  is  going  up  the  stairs 
and  as  he  stands  in  front  of  CATHERINE'S 
door,  it  opens.  PETER  passes  in  and 
CATHERINE  comes  out. 

CATHERINE.  [Astonished.]  Why,  William!  What  are 
you  doing  down  here? 

WILLIAM.  Miss  Catherine!  Come  down!  Come  down! 
I  have  something  to  show  you. 

CATHERINE.  [Not  coming  down.]  No,  dear — come  up 
stairs:  there's  a  good  boy.  You  mustn't  play  down  there.. 
Come  to  bed. 

[Passes  into  WILLIAM'S  room. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Who  has  entered  and  seeing  WIL 
LIAM.]  William ! 

WILLIAM.  Look — look!  [Pointing  to  the  picture.]  See 
what  old  Mr.  Grimm  brought  back  with  him. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Alarmed.]  What  are  you  talking 
about,  William?  Old  Mr.  Grimm  is  dead. 

WILLIAM.  No,  he  isn't  .  .  .  he's  come  back.  .  .  . 
He  has  been  in  this  room. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.    Absurd ! 

WILLIAM.     I  was  talking  to  him. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  You're  feverish  again.  I  must  get 
the  Doctor.  [Comes  down  to  WILLIAM.]  And  I  thought 
you  were  feeling  better !  [Seeing  CATHERINE,  who  appears 
on  the  balcony  as  though  wondering  why  WILLIAM  doesn't 
come  to  bed.]  The  child's  mind  is  wandering.  He  imagines 
all  sorts  of  things.  I'll  call  the  Doctor — 

PETER.  [Who  has  re-entered.]  You  needn't — he's  com 
ing  now.  Come  in,  Andrew.  I'm  giving  you  one  more 
chance. 


188        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[The   Doctor   enters,   wearing   his  skull  cap 

and  carrying  his  pipe  in  his  hand.     It  is 

evident  that  he  has  come  over  in  a  hurry. 

MRS.   BATHOLOMMEY.      [Surprised.]      I   was  just   going 

for  you.     How  fortunate  that  you  came. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  thought  I'd  have  another  peep  at 
William. 

[By  this  time  CATHERINE  has  seated  herself 
on  a  chair  and  takes  WILLIAM  on  her  lap. 
He  puts  his  arms  around  her  neck. 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     He's  quite  delirious. 
DR.  MACPHERSON.     Doesn't  look  it.      [Putting  his  hand 
on   WILLIAM'S   cheek    and   forehead.]      Very    slight    fever. 
What  makes  you  think  he  was  delirious? 

[Counting  WILLIAM'S  pulse. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Interrupting.]  He  said  that 
old  Mr.  Grimm  was  in  this  room — that  he  was  talking  to 
him. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     [Interested.]     Yes?     Really?    Well, 
possibly  he  is.     Nothing  remarkable  in  that,  is  there? 
PETER.     Well,  at  last! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  What?  O,  of  course,  you  believe 
in — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  — In  fact,  I  had  a  compact  with 
him  to  return  if — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  A  compact?  Of  all  the  preposter 
ous — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Not  at  all.  Dozens  of  cases  on 
record — as  I  can  show  you — where  these  compacts  have 
actually  been  kept.  [Suddenly  struck — looking  at  WIL 
LIAM.]  I  wonder  if  that  boy's  a  sensitive.  [Hand  on  his 
chin.]  I  wonder.  .  .  . 

CATHERINE.  [Echoing  the  Doctor's  words.]  A  sensi 
tive? 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM         189 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     What's  that? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  It's  difficult  to  explain.  I  mean  a 
human  organism  so  constituted  that  it  can  be  informed  or 
controlled  by  those  who — er — have — [With  a  gesture.] 
crossed  over. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  think  I'll  put  the  boy  to  bed, 
Doctor. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Just  a  moment,  Mistress  Batholom- 
mey.  I'm  here  to  find  out  what  ails  William.  William: 
what  makes  you  think  that  Mr.  Grimm  is  in  this 
room  ? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  wouldn't  have  the  child  en 
couraged  in  such  ideas,  Catherine.  I — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Ssh !  Please,  please.  [Taking  the 
boy  on  his  knee.~]  What  makes  you  think  Peter  Grimm  is 
in  this  room? 

WILLIAM.     [Hesitating.']   .   .    .  The  things  he  said  to  me. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Said  to  you? 

CATHERINE.  [Wonderingly.]  William  .  .  .  are  you 
sure  he  ... 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Said  to  you,  eh?  [WILLIAM  nods 
assent.]  Old  Mr.  Grimm?  [WILLIAM  nods  assent.]  Sure 
of  that,"  William  ? 

WILLIAM.     O,  yes,  sir. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Think  before  you  speak,  my  boy: 
what  did  Mr.  Grimm  say  to  you  ? 

WILLIAM.     Lots  of  things.     .    .    . 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.    Really ! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Raises  his  hand  for  silence.]  How 
did  he  look,  William? 

WTILLIAM.     I  didn't  see  him. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Ha! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     You  must  have  seen  something. 

WILLIAM.      I   thought   once    I   saw   his   hat  on   the  peg 


190        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

where  it  used  to  hang.     [Looks  at  the  peg.]     No,  it's  gone. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Remonstrating.']     Doctor ! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Thinking.']  I  wonder  if  he  really 
did— 

CATHERINE.  Do  you  think  he  could  have  been  Uncle 
Peter? 

PETER.     [Pointing  to  the  desk.]     William! 

WILLIAM.  Look!  .  .  .  [Points  to  the  picture.]  That's 
what  I  wanted  to  show  you  when  you  were  upstairs. 

CATHERINE.  [Seeing  the  picture.]  It's  his  mother — 
Annamarie. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  The  Lord  save  us — his  mother ! 
I  didn't  know  you'd  heard  from  Annamarie. 

CATHERINE.  •  We  haven't. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Then  how'd  that  picture  get  into 
the  house? 

PETER.  Ah !  I  knew  she'd  begin!  Now  that  she's  wound 
up,  we  shall  get  at  the  truth. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  It's  a  new  picture.  She's  much 
changed.  How  ever  did  it  find  its  way  here? 

CATHERINE.  I  never  saw  it  before.  It's  very  strange. 
.  .  .  We've  all  been  waiting  for  news  of  her.  Even 
her  mother  doesn't  know  where  she  is,  or — could  Marta 
have  received  this  since  I — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     I'll  ask  her. 

[Exit  into  dining  room. 

CATHERINE.  If  not,  who  had  the  picture?  .  .  .  And 
why  weren't  we  all  told?  .  .  .  Who  tore  it  up?  Did 
you,  William?  [WILLIAM  shakes  his  head,  meaning  "  No."] 
Who  has  been  at  the  desk?  No  one  save  Frederik  .  .  . 
Frederik  .  .  .  and  surely  he — 

[She  pauses — perplexed. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Re-entering.]  No:  Marta  hasn't 
heard  a  word;  and  only  a  few  minutes  ago,  she  asked 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        191 

Frederik  if  some  message  hadn't  come,  but  he  said,  "  No, 
nothing."  I  didn't  tell  her  of  the  picture. 

CATHERINE.  [Looking  at  the  picture.]  I  wonder  if 
there  was  any  message  with  it. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  remember  the  day  that  picture 
came  .  .  .  the  day  your  uncle  died.  ...  It  was  a 
long  blue  envelope — the  size  of  the  picture.  ...  I  took 
it  from  the  postman  myself  because  everyone  was  distracted 
and  rushing  about.  It  dropped  to  the  floor  and  as  I 
picked  it  up  I  thought  I  knew  the  writing;  but  I  couldn't 
remember  whose  it  was.  ...  It  was  directed  to  your 
uncle.  .  .  .  [Looking  from  the  desk  to  the  waste  basket.] 
There's  the  envelope, — [Holding  up  a  scrap  of  blue  en 
velope.']  and  paper  .  .  .  someone  has  burned  it. 

CATHERINE.     Annamarie  wrote  to  my  uncle.     .    .    . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Not  understanding.]  But  what 
could  Peter  have  to  say  to  me  concerning  Annamarie? 
[Making  a  resolution — rising.]  We're  going  to  find  out. 
You  may  draw  the  curtains,  Catherine,  if  you  please. 
[CATHERINE  draws  the  curtains.  The  Doctor  turns  the 
lights  down  and  closes  the  door.  A  pause.]  Peter 
Grimm.  .  .  . 

PETER.     Yes,  Andrew?     .    .    . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Not  hearing.]  If  you  have  come 
back  ...  if  you  are  in  the  room  .  .  .  and  the  boy 
speaks  truly — give  me  some  sign  .  .  .  some  indica 
tion  .  .  . 

PETER.  I  can't  give  you  a  sign,  Andrew.  ...  I  have 
spoken  to  the  boy  .  .  .  the  boy  .  .  . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  If  you  cannot  make  your  presence 
known  to  me — I  know  there  are  great  difficulties — will  you 
try  and  send  your  message  by  William?  I  presume  you 
have  one — 

PETER.    Yes,  that's  right. 


192        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  — or  else  you  wouldn't  have  come 
back? 

PETER.  That's  just  the  point  I  wanted  to  make,  Andrew. 
You  understand  perfectly. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [As  before.']  I  am  waiting.  .  .  . 
We  are  all  waiting.  [Noticing  that  a  door  is  a  trifle  ajar.~\ 
The  door's  open  again. 

[MRS.     BATHOLOMMEY,    without     making    a 
sound,  closes  it  and  sits  as  before. 

PETER.     Sh !     Listen ! 

[A  pause. 

WILLIAM.  [In  a  peculiar  manner — as  though  in  a  half 
dream — but  not  shutting  his  eyes.  As  though  controlled 
by  PETER.]  There  was  Annamarie  and  me  and  the  other. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Very  low,  as  though  afraid  to  in 
terrupt  WILLIAM'S  train  of  thought.']  What  other? 

WILLIAM.    The  man    .    .    .    that  came. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    Whatman? 

WILLIAM.     The  man  that  made  Annamarie  cry. 

CATHERINE.    Who  was  he? 

WILLIAM.     I  don't  know    .    .    . 

PETER.     Yes,  you  do.     Don't  tell  lies,  William. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     What  man  made  Annamarie  cry? 

WILLIAM.    I  can't  remember.     .    .    . 

PETER.     Yes,  you  can.     .    .    .     You're  afraid.     .    .    . 

CATHERINE.  [In  a  low  voice.']  So  you  do  remember  the 
time  when  you  lived  with  Annamarie  .  .  .  you  always 
told  me  that  you  didn't  ...  [To  DR.  MACPHERSON.] 
I  must  know  more  of  this — [Pauses  abruptly.']  Think, 
William:  who  came  to  the  house? 

PETER.     That's  what  I  asked  you,  William. 

WILLIAM.     That's  what  he  asked.     .    .    . 

DR.   MACPHERSON.     Who? 

WILLIAM.    Mr.  Grimm. 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        193 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     When,  William? 

WILLIAM.     Just  now    .    .    . 

CATHERINE.  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Together.]  Just 
now! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Hm  .  .  .  you' both  ask  the  same 
question,  eh?  The  man  that  came  to  see — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Perplexed.]  It  can't  be  pos 
sible  that  the  child  knows  what  he's  talking  about. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Ignoring  her.]  What  did  you  tell 
Mr.  Grimm  when  he  asked  you? 

PETER.  You'd  better  make  haste,  William.  Frederik  is 
coming  back. 

WILLIAM.  [Looking  uneasily  over  his  shoulder.]  I'm 
afraid.  .  .  . 

CATHERINE.  Why  does  he  always  look  towards  that 
door?  You're  not  afraid  now,  William? 

WILLIAM.  [Looking  towards  the  door.]  N-no — but 
.  .  .  Please  don't  let  Mr.  Frederik  come  back.  'Cause 
then  I'll  be  afraid  again. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Ah! 

PETER.     William  ?     William  ? 

WILLIAM.      [Rising  quickly.]     Yes,  Mr.  Grimm? 

PETER.     You  must  say  that  I  am  very  unhappy. 

WILLIAM.     He  says  he  is  very  unhappy. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Why  is  he  unhappy?  .  .  .  Ask 
him. 

WILLIAM.     Why  are  you  unhappy,  Mr.  Grimm? 

PETER.     I  am  thinking  of  Catherine's  future.     .    .    . 

WILLIAM.  [Not  understanding  the  last  word — puzzled.] 
Eh? 

PETER.      To-morrow.     .    .    . 

WILLIAM.      [After  a  slight  pause.]      To-morrow.     .    .    . 

PETER.      Catherine's — 

WILLIAM.      [Looks  at  CATHERINE — hesitating.]      Your — 


194        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  II 

[Stops.  CATHERINE  gives  the  Doctor  a  quick 
glance — she  seems  to  divine  the  message. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.      [Prompting.']     Her — 

CATHERINE.     What,  William?     What  of  to-morrow? 

PETER.     She  must  not  marry  Frederik. 

WILLIAM.    I  mustn't  say  that. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     What? 

WILLIAM.    What  he  wanted  me  to  say. 

[Points  towards  PETER.  All  instinctively 
look  towards  the  spot  to  which  WILLIAM 
points,  but  they  see  no  one. 

PETER.  [Speaking  slowly  to  the  boy.~\  Catherine — must 
— not — marry  Frederik  Grimm. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Speak,  William.  No  one  will  hurt 
you. 

WILLIAM.  O,  yes,  he  will.  .  .  .  [Looking  timidly 
towards  the  door.~\  I  don't  want  to  tell  his  name — 'cause 
.  .  .  'cause  .  .  . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Why  don't  you  tell  the  name,  Wil 
liam? 

PETER.     Make  haste,  William,  make  haste. 

WILLIAM.  [Trembling.']  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  I'm  afraid 
...  he  will  make  Annamarie  cry  ...  he  makes  me 
cry  .  .  . 

CATHERINE.  [With  suppressed  excitement — half  to  her 
self.']  Why  are  you  afraid  of  him  ?  Was  Frederik  the  man 
that  came  to  see  Annamarie? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Catherine! 

CATHERINE.  [On  her  knees  before  WILLIAM.]  Was  he? 
Was  it  Frederik  Grimm?  Tell  me,  William. 

MRS.   BATHOLOMMEY.     Surely  you  don't  believe     .    .    . 

CATHERINE.  [In  a  low  voice.  I've  thought  of  a  great 
many  things  to-day  .  .  .  little  things  .  .  .  little  things 
I'd  never  noticed  before.  .  .  .  I'm  putting  them  together 


Act  II]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM        195 

just  as  he  put  that  picture  together.     ...     I  must  know 
the  truth. 

PETER.  William,  make  haste.  .  .  .  Frederik  is  listen 
ing  at  the  door. 

WILLIAM.  [Frightened.]  I  won't  say  any  more.  He's 
there  ...  at  the  door.  .  .  . 

[He  looks  over  his  shoulder  and  CATHERINE 
goes  towards  the  door."] 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     William,  tell  me. 

PETER.     William ! 

[CATHERINE  opens  the  door  suddenly.  FRED- 
ERIK  is  standing,  listening.  He  is  taken 
unawares  and  for  a  few  seconds  he  does 
not  move — then  he  recovers. 

WILLIAM.  Please  don't  let  him  scold  me.  I'm  afraid 
of  him.  [Going  towards  the  stairs — looking  at  FREDERIK.] 
I  was  afraid  of  him  when  I  lived  with  Annamarie  and  he 
came  to  see  us  and  made  her  cry. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Are  you  sure  you  remember  that? 
Weren't  you  too  small? 

WILLIAM.  No:  I  do  remember.  ...  I  always  did 
remember,  only  for  a  little  while  I — I  forgot.  ...  I 
must  go  to  bed.  He  told  me  to.  [Goes  upstairs. 

PETER.  [Calling  after  WILLIAM.]  You're  a  good  boy, 
William.  [WILLIAM  goes  to  his  room.'] 

CATHERINE.  [After  a  slight  pause — simply.]  Frederik: 
you've  heard  from  Annamarie.  .  .  .  [Gestures  towards 
the  desk.  FREDERIK  sees  the  photograph  and  is  silent.] 
You've  had  a  letter  from  her.  You  tried  to  destroy  it. 
Why  did  you  tell  Marta  that  you'd  had  no  message — no 
news  ?  You  went  to  see  her,  too.  Why  did  you  tell  me  that 
'you'd  never  seen  her  since  she  went  away?  Why  did  you 
lie  to  me?  Why  do  you  hate  that  child? 

FREDERIK.    Are  you  going  to  believe  what  that  boy — 


196      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

CATHERINE.  I'm  going  to  find  out.  I'm  going  to  find 
out  where  she  is,  before  I  marry  you.  That  child  may  be 
right  or  wrong,  but  I'm  going  to  know  what  his  mother  was 
to  you.  I  want  the  truth. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Who  has  been  in  thought — now 
looking  up.~]  We've  heard  the  truth.  We  had  that  message 
from  Peter  Grimm  himself. 

CATHERINE.  Yes:  it  is  true.  I  believe  Uncle  Peter 
Grimm  was  in  this  room  to-night. 

FREDERIK.  [Not  surprised — glancing  towards  the  spot 
where  PETER  stood  when  he  thought  he  saw  him.']  O ! 
You  too?  Did  you  see  him,  too? 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Incredulously.']      Impossible ! 

CATHERINE.  I  don't  care  what  anyone  else  may  think 
— people  have  the  right  to  think  for  themselves;  but  I  be 
lieve  he  has  been  here — he  is  here.  Uncle  Peter:  if  you 
can  hear  me  now,  give  me  back  my  promise — or — or  I'll 
take  it  back ! 

PETER.  [Gently — smilingly — relieved.']  I  did  give  it 
back  to  you,  my  dear;  but  what  a  time  I  had  getting  it 


across ! 


Curtain. 


ACT  III 

[SCENE:  The  third  act  takes  place  at  twenty  minutes  to 
twelve  on  the  same  night. 

The  fire  is  out.  The  table  on  which  PETER  took  his 
coffee  in  the  first  act,  is  now  being  used  by  the  Doctor 
for  WILLIAM'S  medicines,  two  bottles,  two  glasses,  two 
teaspoons,  a  clinical  thermometer,  etc.  WILLIAM,  who 
has  been  questioned  by  the  Doctor,  is  now  asleep  up 
stairs.  PETER'S  hat  hangs  on  the  peg  in  the  shadow. 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM       197 

Although  the  hour  is  late,  no  one  has  thought  of  going 
to  bed.  FREDERIK  is  "waiting  at  the  hotel  for  the  lawyer 
whom  HICKS  was  to  send  to  arrange  for  the  sale  of 
PETER  GRIMM'S  nurseries,  but  he  has  not  arrived. 

It  is  now  a  fine  clear  night.  The  clouds  are  almost 
silvery  and  a  hint  of  the  moon  is  showing. 

A  T  RISE.  The  Doctor,  full  of  his  theories,  is  seated 
before  the  fire,  writing  the  account  of  PETER  GRIMM'S 
return,  for  the  American  Branch  of  the  "  London 
Society  of  Psychical  Research." 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Reading  what  he  has  written."] 
"  To  be  forwarded  to  the  London  Society  of  Psychical  Re 
search:  Dr.  Hyslop:  Dear  Sir:  This  evening  at  the  resi 
dence  of  Peter — "  [Pauses  and  inserts  "  the  late  "  and  con- 
tinues  to  read  after  inserting  the  words]  "  — the  late  Peter 
Grimm — the  well  known  horticulturist  of  Grimm  Manor, 
New  York,  certain  phenomena  were  observed  which  would 
clearly  indicate  the  return  of  Peter  Grimm  ten  days  after  his 
decease.  While  he  was  invisible  to  all,  three  people  were 
present  besides  myself;  one  of  these  a  child  of  eight,  who 
received  the  message.  There  was  no  spelling  out  of  signals 
nor  automatic  writing,  but  word  of  mouth."  [A  rap 
sounds.]  Who  will  that  be  at  this  hour?  .  .  .  [Looks 
at  the  clock.]  Nearly  midnight.  [Opening  the  door.]  Yes? 

A  VOICE.     [Outside.]     Telegram  for  Frederik  Grimm. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Not  in.  I'll  sign.  [He  signs,  and 
receives  the  telegram,  sets  it  against  a  candle  stick  on  the 
desk  and  resumes  his  seat.  Reads.]  "  I  made  a  compact 
with  Peter  Grimm  while  he  was  in  the  flesh,  that  whichever 
went  first  was  to  return  and  give  the  other  some  sign;  and 
I  propose  to  give  positive  proof — "  [He  hesitates — thinks — 
then  repeats]  "  positive  proof  that  he  kept  this  compact  and 
that  I  assisted  in  the  carrying  out  of  his  instructions." 


198      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Enters — evidently  highly  wrought 
up  by  the  events  of  the  evening.']  Who  was  that?  Who 
knocked  ? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Telegram. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.     I  thought  perhaps  Frederik  had 
come  back.     Don't  you  consider  William  much  better  ? 
DR.  MACPHERSON.     Mm.     .    .    . 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Dear,  dear !  The  scerie  that  took 
place  to-night  has  completely  upset  me.  [The  Doctor  takes 
up  his  pen  and  reads  to  himself.]  Well,  Doctor:  [She 
pushes  forward  a  chair  and  sits  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table — facing  him]  the  breaking  off  of  the  engagement  is 
Tather  sudden,  isn't  it?  We've  been  talking  it  over  in  the 
front  parlor,  Mr.  Batholommey  and  I.  James  has  finished 
his  work  and  has  just  joined  us.  I  suggest  sending  out  a 
card — a  neat  card — saying  that  owing  to  the  bereavement 
in  the  family,  the  wedding  has  been  indefinitely  postponed. 
Of  course,  it  isn't  exactly  true. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.    Won't  take  place  at  all. 

[Goes  on  reading. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Evidently  not;  if  the  whole  matter 
looks  very  strange  to  me — how  will  it  look  to  other  people; 
especially  since  we  haven't  any,  any  rational  explanation 
— as  yet.  We  must  get  out  of  it  in  some  fashion. 
DR.  MACPHERSON.  Whose  business  is  it? 
MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Nobody's,  of  course.  But  Cather 
ine's  position  is  certainly  unusual ;  and  the  strangest  part  of 
it  all  is — she  doesn't  seem  to  feel  her  situation.  She's  sit 
ting  alone  in  the  library,  seemingly  placid  and  happy. 
What  I  really  wish  to  consult  you  about,  is  this :  should  the 
card  we're  going  to  send  out  have  a  narrow  black  border? 
[The  Doctor  is  now  writing.]  Doctor:  you  don't  appear 
to  be  interested.  You  might  at  least  answer  my  ques 
tion. 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM       199 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  What  chance  have  I  had  to  answer? 
You've  done  all  the  talking. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Rising — annoyed.~\  Q,  of  course, 
all  these  little  matters  sound  trivial  to  you;  but  men  like 
you  couldn't  look  after  the  workings  of  the  next  world  if 
others  didn't  attend  to  this.  Someone  has  to  do  it. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  fully  appreciate  the  fact,  Mistress 
Batholommey,  that  other  people  are  making  it  possible  for 
me  to  be  myself.  I'll  admit  that;  and  now  if  I  might  have 
a  few  moments  in  peace  to  attend  to  something  really  im 
portant —  [The  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  has  entered 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Doctor:  I've  been  thinking  things 
over.  I  ran  in  for  a  moment  to  suggest  that  we  suspend 
judgement  until  we  investigate  William's  story.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Ump !  [Rises  and  goes  to  the  tele 
phone  on  the  desk.']  Four — red. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  I  regret  that  Frederik  left  the 
house  without  offering  some  explanation. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [At  the  'phone.]  Marget:  I'm  at 
PETER'S.  I  mean — I'm  at  the  Grimms'.  Send  me  my  bag. 
I'll  stay  the  night  with  William.  Bye. 

[Seats  himself  at  the  table. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Tell  Frederik  that  if  he  cares  to 
consult  me,  I  shall  be  at  home  in  my  study.  Good  night. 
Doctor.  Good  night,  Rose. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Hold  on,,  Mr.  Batholommey!  [The 
REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  turns.']  I'm  writing  an  account 
of  all  that  happened  here  to-night — 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     [Dubiously."]     Indeed ! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  shall  verify  every  word  of  the 
evidence  by  William's  mother  for  whom  I  am  searching. 
[The  REV.  MR.  BATHOLOMMEY  smiles  faintly  behind  his 


200        THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

hand.]  Then  I  shall  send  in  my  report,  and  not  until  then. 
What  I  wish  to  ask  is  this:  would  you  have  any  objection 
to  the  name  of  Mrs.  Batholommey  being  used  as  a  witness? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Looks  perplexed.]  Well, — er 
— a — 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  O,  no,  you  don't!  You  may  flout 
our  beliefs ;  but  wouldn't  you  like  to  bolster  up  your  report 
with  "  the  wife  of  a  clergyman  who  was  present !  "  It 
sounds  so  respectable  and  sane,  doesn't  it?  No,  sir!  You 
cannot  prop  up  your  wild  eyed — 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     Rose,  my  dear! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Sweeping  on]  theories  against 
the  good  black  of  a  minister's  coat.  I  think  myself  that  you 
have  probably  stumbled  on  the  truth  about  William's  mother. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Can  it  be  true?  Oh  dreadful! 
Dreadful ! 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  But  that  child  knew  it  all  along. 
He's  eight  years  old  and  he  was  with  her  until  five — and 
five's  the  age  of  memory.  Every  incident  of  his  mother's 
life  has  lingered  in  his  little  mind.  Supposing  you  do  find 
her  and  learn  that  it's  all  true :  what  do  you  prove  ?  Simply 
that  William  remembered,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  Let  us  hope  that  there's  not  a  word  , 
of  truth  in  it.  Don't  you  think,  Doctor, — mind  I'm  not 
opposing  your  ideas  as  a  clergyman, — I'm  just  echoing  what 
everybody  else  thinks, — don't  you  believe  these  spiritualistic 
ideas  leading  away  from  the  Heaven  we  were  taught  to  be 
lieve  in,  tend  towards  irresponsibility — er — eccentricity — 
and — oftener — insanity?  Is  it  healthy — that's  the  idea — 
is  it  healthy? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Well,  Batholommey,  religion  has 
frequently  led  to  the  stake,  and  I  never  heard  of  the  Spanish 
Inquisition  being  called  healthy  for  anybody  taking  part  in 
it.  Still,  religion  flourishes.  But  your  old  fashioned  un- 

i 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM       201 

scientific  gilt  ginger-bread  Heaven  blew  up  ten  years  ago — 
went  out.  My  Heaven's  just  coming  in.  It's  new.  Dr. 
Funk  and  a  lot  of  the  clergymen  are  in  already.  You'd  bet 
ter  get  used  to  it,  Batholommey,  and  get  in  line  and  into  the 
procession. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  You'll  have  to  convince  me  first, 
Doctor — and  that  no  man  can  do.  I  made  up  my  mind  at 
twenty-one  and  my  heaven  is  just  where  it  was  then. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  So  I  see.  It  hasn't  improved  a 
particle. 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Tolerantly.]  Well,  well.  Good 
night. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Follows  him  in  the  hall.]  Good 
night,,  Henry,  I'll  be  home  to-morrow.  You'll  be  glad  to 
see  me,  dear,  won't  you? 

REV.  BATHOLOMMEY.     My  church  mouse! 

[He  pats  her  cheek,  kisses  her  good  night  and  goes. 

MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY.  [Who  has  gone  to  the  door  of  her 
room — giving  the  Doctor  a  parting  .shot.]  Write  as  much 
as  you  like,  Doctor ;  words  are  but  air.  We  didn't  see  Peter 
Grimm,  and  you  know  and  I  know  and  everybody  knows 
that  seeing  is  believing. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Looking  up.]  Damn  everybody ! 
It's  everybody's  ignorance  that  has  set  the  world  back  a 
thousand  years.  Where  was  I  before  you — O,  yes.  [Reads 
as  MRS.  BATHOLOMMEY  leaves  the  room.]  "  I  assisted  in 
the  carrying  out  of  his  instructions." 

[FREDERIK  GRIMM  enters. 

FREDERIK.  Anybody  in  this  house  come  to  their  senses 
yet? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  think  so,  my  boy.  I  think  several 
in  this  house  have  come  to  their  senses.  Catherine  has,  for 
one.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  back,  Frederik.  I  have  a  few 
questions  to  put  to  you. 


202      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

FREDERIK.  Why  don't  you  have  more  light?  It's  half 
dark  in  this  room.  [He  picks  up  the  lamp  from  the 
Doctor's  table  and  holds  it  so  that  he  can  look  searchingly 
in  the  direction  of  the  desk  to  see  if  PETER'S  apparition  is 
still  there.  His  eye  is  suddenly  riveted  on  the  telegram 
resting  against  the  candlestick  on  the  desk.']  Is  that  tele 
gram  for  me? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Yes. 

FREDERIK.  O.  ...  It  may  explain  perhaps  why  I've 
been  kept  waiting  at  the  hotel.  .  .  .  [Tries  to  go  to  the 
desk  but  cannot  muster  up  enough  courage.~\  I  had  an 
appointment  to  meet  a  man  who  wanted  to  buy  the  gardens. 
I  may  as  well  tell  you,  I'm  thinking  of  selling  out  root  and 
branch. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Amazed.']  Selling  out?  Peter 
Grimm's  gardens?  So  this  is  the  end  of  Peter's  great 
work  ? 

FREDERIK.  You'll  think  it  strange,  Doctor;  but  I — I 
simply  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  go  near  that  old  desk 
of  my  uncle's.  ...  I  have  a  perfect  terror  of  the  thing ! 
Would  you  mind  handing  me  that  telegram?  [The  Doctor 
looks  at  him  with  scarcely  veiled  contempt,  and  hands  him 
the  telegram.  After  a  glance  at  the  contents,  FREDERIK 
gives  vent  to  a  long  drawn  breath.]  Billy  Hicks — the  man 
I  was  to  sell  to — is  dead.  .  .  .  [Tosses  the  telegram 
across  the  table  towards  the  Doctor,  who  does  not  take  it. 
It  lies  on  the  table.]  I  knew  it  this  afternoon!  I  knew 
he  would  die  ...  but  I  wouldn't  let  myself  believe  it. 
Someone  told  it  to  me  .  .  .  whispered  it  to  me.  .  .  . 
Doctor:  as  sure  as  you  live — somebody  else  is  doing  my 
thinking  for  me  ...  in  this  house. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Studying  FREDERIK.]  What  makes 
you  say  that? 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM      20* 

FREDERIK.  To-night — in  this  room,  I  thought  I  saw  my 
uncle  .  .  .  [Pointing  towards  the  desk]  there. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Eh?     ... 

FREDERIK.  And  just  before  I  saw  him — I — I  had  the 
.  .  .  the  strangest  impulse  to  go  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  call  Kitty, — give  her  the  house — and  run — run — get 
out  of  it. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  O,  a  good  impulse,  I  see !  Very  un 
usual,  I  should  say. 

FREDERIK.  I  thought  he  gave  me  a  terrible  look — a 
terrible  look. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Your  uncle? 

FREDERIK.  Yes.  My  God !  I  won't  forget  that  look ! 
And  as  I  started  out  of  the  room — he  blotted  out  ...  I 
mean — I  thought  I  saw  him  blot  out;  .  .  .  then  I  left 
the  photograph  on  the  desk  and — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  That's  how  William  came  by  it.  [  Jots 
down  a  couple  of  notes. ]  Did  you  ever  have  this  impulse 
before — to  give  up  Catherine — to  let  her  have  the  cottage? 

FREDERIK.  Not  much  I  hadn't.  Certainly  not.  I  told 
you  someone  else  was  thinking  for  me.  I  don't  want  to 
give  her  up.  It's  folly!  I've  always  been  fond  of  her. 
But  if  she  has  turned  against  me,  I'm  not  going  to  sit 
here  and  cry  about  it.  I  shall  be  up  and  off.  [Rising.] 
But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing:  from  this  time,  I  propose  to 
think  for  myself.  I've  taken  a  room  at  the  hotel  and  a  few 
things  for  the  night.  I've  done  with  this  house.  I'd  like  to 
sell  it  along  with  the  gardens  and  let  a  stranger  raze  it  to  the 
ground;  but — [Thinks  as  he  looks  towards  the  desk]  when 
I  walk  out  of  here  to-night — it's  hers — she  can  have  it. 
.  .  .  I  wouldn't  sleep  here.  ...  I  give  her  the  home 
because  .  .  . 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Because  you  don't  believe  anything 


204      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

but  you  want  to  be  on  the  safe  side  in  case  he — [Gesturing 
to  desk.]  was  there. 

FREDERIK.  [Puzzled — awed — his  voice  almost  dropping 
to  a  whisper.]  How  do  you  account  for  it,  Doctor? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  It  might  have  been  an  hallucination 
or  perhaps  you  did  see  him  though  it  could  have  been  in 
flammation  of  conscience.  Frederik:  when  did  you  last 
see  Annamarie  ? 

FREDERIK.  [Angrily.]  Haven't  I  told  you  already  that 
I  refuse  to  answer  any  questions  as  to  my — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  I  think  it  only  fair  to  tell  you  that 
it  won't  make  a  particle  of  difference  whether  you  answer 
me  or  not.  I  have  someone  on  the  track  now — working 
from  an  old  address;  I've  called  in  the  detectives  and  I'll 
find  her,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  As  long  as  I'm  going 
to  know  it,  I  may  as  well  hear  your  side  of  it,  too.  When 
did  you  last  see  Annamarie? 

FREDERIK.  [Sits — answers  dully,  mechanically,  after  a 
pause.]  About  three  years  ago. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Never  since? 

FREDERIK.     No. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  What  occurred  the  last  time  you  saw 
her? 

FREDERIK.  [Quietly,  as  before.]  What  always  occurs 
when  a  young  man  realizes  that  he  has  his  life  before  him, 
must  be  respected — looked  up  to, — settle  down,  think  of  his 
future  and  forget  a  silly  girl? 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  A  scene  took  place,  eh?  Was  Wil 
liam  present? 

FREDERIK.     Yes.     She  held  him  in  her  arms. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  jAnd  then? 

FREDERIK.     I  left  the  house. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Then  it's  all  true.  [FREDERIK  is 
silent.]  What  are  you  going  to  do  for  William? 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM      205 

FREDERIK.  Nothing.  I'm  a  rich  man  now — and  if  I 
recognize  him — hell  be  at  me  till  the  day  he  dies.  His 
mother's  gone  to  the  dogs  and  under  her  influence,  the  boy — 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Be  silent,  you  damned  young  scoun 
drel.  Oh,  what  an  act  of  charity  if  the  good  Lord  took 
William,  and  I  say  it  with  all  my  heart.  Out  of  all  you 
have — not  a  crumb  for — 

FREDERIK.  I  want  you  to  know  I've  sweat  for  that  money 
and  I'm  going  to  keep  it! 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     You've  sweat  for — 

FREDERIK.  [Showing  feeling.']  — Yes !  How  do  you 
think  I  got  the  money?  I  went  to  jail  for  it — jail,  jail. 
Every  day  I've  been  in  this  house  has  been  spent  in 
prison.  I've  been  doing  time.  Do  you  think  it  didn't  get 
on  my  nerves?  I've  gone  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  and  thought 
of  what  I  was  missing  in  New  York.  I've  got  up  at  cock 
crow  to  be  in  time  for  grace  at  the  breakfast  table.  I  took 
charge  of  a  class  in  Sabbath  school,  and  I  handed  out  the 
infernal  cornucopias  at  the  Church  Christmas  tree,  while 
he  played  Santa  Claus.  What  more  can  a  fellow  do  to 
earn  his  money?  Don't  you  call  that  sweating?  Yes  sir: 
I've  danced  like  a  damned  hand  organ  monkey  for  the 
pennies  he  left  me  and  I  had  to  grin  and  touch  my  hat  and 
make  believe  I  liked  it.  Now  I'm  going  to  spend  every 
cent  for  my  own  personal  pleasure. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Will  rich  men  never  learn  wisdom ! 

FREDERIK.  [Rising.'}  No,  they  won't !  But  in  every 
fourth  generation  there  comes  along  a  wise  fellow — a 
spender  who  knows  how  to  distribute  the  money  others 
have  hoarded:  I'm  the  spender. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  Shame  on  YOU  and  your  like!  Your 
breed  should  be  exterminated. 

FREDERIK.  [Taking  a  little  packet  of  letters  from  the 
desk.]  O,  no:  we're  quite  as  necessary  as  you  are.  And 


206      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

now — I  will  answer  no  more  questions.     I'm  done.     Good 
night,  Doctor. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     Good  night  and  good-bye.      [With 
a  look  of  disgust,  has  gone  to  the  table,  held  a  medicine  bot 
tle  to  the  light  to  look  at  the  label,  and  poured  a  spoonful 
into  a  wine  glass  filed  with  water.    As  FREDERIK  leaves  the 
house,  the  Doctor  taps  on  a  door  and  calls.']      Catherine ! 
[CATHERINE  enters  and  shows  by  the  glance  she  directs  at 
the  front  door  that  she  knows  FREDERIK  has  been  in  the 
room  and  has  just  left  the  house.~\     Burn  up  your  wedding 
dress.      We've   made    no   mistake.      I    can   tell   you    that! 
[Goes  up  the  stairs  to  WILLIAM'S  room,  taking 
the  lamp  with  him.     JAMES  has  entered 
and  taking  CATHERINE'S  hand,  holds  it  for 
a  moment. 

JAMES.     Good  night,  Catherine. 

[She  turns  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

CATHERINE.     I  wonder,  James,  if  he  can  see  us  now. 

JAMES.  That's  the  big  mystery!  .  .  .  Who  can  tell? 
But  any  man  who  works  with  flowers  and  things  that 
grow — knows  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death — there's 
nothing  but  life — life  and  always  life.  I'll  be  back  in  the 
morning.  .  .  .  Won't  you  .  .  .  see  me  to  the  door? 

CATHERINE.  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  [They  go  out  to 
gether,  CATHERINE  carrying  a  candle  into  the  dark  vesti 
bule.  The  moment  they  disappear,  a  lamp  standing  on  the 
piano  goes  out  as  though  the  draught  from  the  door  or  an 
unseen  hand  had  extinguished  it.  It  is  now  quite  dark  out 
side,  and  the  moon  is  hidden  for  a  moment.  At  the  same 
time,  a  light,  seemingly  coming  from  nowhere,  reveals  PETER 
GRIMM  standing  in  the  room  at  the  door — as  though  he  had 
been  there  when  the  young  people  passed  out.  He  is  smil 
ing  and  happy.  The  moon  is  not  seen,  but  the  light  of  it 
(a*  though  it  had  come  out  from  behind  a  cloud)  now  reveals 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM      207 

the  old  windmill.  From  outside  the  door  the  voices  of 
JAMES  and  CATHERINE  are  heard  as  they  both  say:~\  Good 
night. 

JAMES.    Catherine.     ...     I  won't  go  without  it.     ... 

PETER.  [Knowing  that  JAMES  is  demanding  a  kiss.] 
Aha!  [Rubs  his  hands  with  satisfaction — then  listens — 
and  after  a  second  pause  exclaims,  with  an  upraised  finger, 
as  though  he  were  hearing  the  kiss.]  Ah !  Now  I  can 
go  ... 

[He  walks  to  the  peg  on  which  his  hat  hangs 
and  takes  it  down.  His  work  is  done. 
CATHERINE  re-enters,  darting  into  the 
hall  in  girlish  confusion. 

JAMES.     [His  happy  voice,  outside.]     Good  night! 

CATHERINE.  [Calling  to  him  through  the  crack  in  the 
door.]  Good  night!  [She  closes  the  door,  turns  the  key 
and  draws  the  heavy  bolt — then  leans  against  the  door, 
candlestick  in  hand — the  wind  has  blown  out  the  candle.] 
Oh,  I'm  so  happy!  I'm  so  happy! 

PETER.  Then  good  night  to  you,  my  darling:  love  can 
not  say  good-bye.  [She  goes  to  PETER'S  chair  and  sitting 
thinks  it  over — her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap — her  face 
radiant  with  happiness.]  Here  in  your  childhood's  home  I 
leave  you.  Here  in  the  years  to  come,  the  way  lies  clear 
before  you.  [His  arms  upraised.]  "  Lust  in  Rust  " — 
Pleasure  and  peace  go  with  you.  [CATHERINE  looks  towards 
the  door — remembering  JAMES'  kiss — half  smiling.  Humor 
ously.]  Y-es ;  I  saw  you.  I  heard  .  .  .  I  know.  .  .  . 
Here  on  some  sunny  blossoming  day  when,  as  a  wife,  you 
look  out  upon  my  garden — every  flower  and  tree  and  shrub 
shall  bloom  enchanted  to  your  eyes.  .  .  .  All  that  hap 
pens — happens  again.  And  if  at  first,  a  little  knock  of 
poverty  taps  at  the  door  and  James  finds  the  road  hard  and 
steep — what  is  money? — a  thing, — a  good  thing  to  have, — 


208      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

but  still  a  thing  .  .  .  and  happiness  will  come  without 
it.  And  when,  as  a  mother,  you  shall  see  my  plantings  with 
new  eyes,  my  Catherine., — when  you  explain  each  leaf  and 
bud  to  your  little  people — you  will  remember  the  time  when 
we  walked  together  through  the  leafy  lanes  and  I  taught 
you — even,  as  you  teach  them — you  little  thing!  .  .  . 
So,  I  shall  linger  in  your  heart.  And  some  day  should  your 
children  wander  far  away  and  my  gardens  blossom  for  a 
stranger  who  may  take  my  name  off  the  gates, — what  is 
my  name?  Already  it  grows  faint  to  my  ears.  [Lightly."] 
Yes,  yes,  yes :  let  others  take  my  work.  .  .  .  Why  should 
we  care?  All  that  happens,  happens  again.  [She  rests  her 
elbow  on  the  chair,  half  hides  her  face  in  her  hand.~\  And 
never  forget  this:  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you — I  shall  know 
all  your  life.  I  shall  adore  your  children  and  be  their 
grandfather  just  as  though  I  were  here;  I  shall  find  it  hard 
not  to  laugh  at  them  when  they  are  bad  and  I  shall  worship 
them  when  they  are  good — and  I  don't  want  them  too  good. 
.  .  .  Frederik  was  good.  ...  I  shall  be  everywhere 
about  you  ...  in  the  stockings  at  Christmas,  in  a  big, 
busy,  teeming  world  of  shadows  just  outside  your  thres 
hold  or  whispering  in  the  still  noises  of  the  night.  .  .  . 
And  oh!  as  the  years  pass,  [Standing  over  her  chair]  you 
cannot  imagine  what  pride  I  shall  take  in  your  comfortable 
middle  life — the  very  best  age,  I  think — when  you  two  shall 
look  out  on  your  possessions  arm  in  arm — and  take  your 
well  earned  comfort  and  ease.  How  I  shall  love  to  see  you 
look  fondly  at  each  other  as  you  say:  "Be  happy,  Jim — 
you've  worked  hard  for  this."  or  James  say:  "Take  your 
comfort,  little  mother,  let  them  all  wait  upon  you — you 
waited  upon  them.  Lean  back  in  your  carriage — you've 
earned  it!  "  And  towards  the  end — [Sitting  on  a  chair  by 
her  side  and  looking  into  her  face]  after  all  the  luxuries 
and  vanities  and  possessions  cease  to  be  so  important — 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM       209 

people  return  to  very  simple  things,  dear.  The  evening 
of  life  comes  bearing  its  own  lamp.  Then  perhaps  as  a  little 
old  grandmother,  a  little  old  child  whose  bed  time  is  draw 
ing  near,  I  shall  see  you  happy  to  sit  out  in  the  sunlight  of 
another  day ;  asking  nothing  more  of  life  than  the  few  hours 
to  be  spent  with  those  you  love  .  .  .  telling  your  grand 
children  at  your  knees,  how  much  brighter  the  flowers  blos 
somed  when  you  were  young.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  All  that 
happens,  happens  again.  .  .  .  And  when  one  day,  glori 
fied,  radiant,  young  once  more,  the  mother  and  I  shall  take 
you  in  our  arms,  Oh!  what  a  re-union!  [Inspired.']  The 
flight  of  love — to  love.  .  .  .  And  now  .  .  .  [He 
bends  over  her  and  caresses  her  hand.]  Good  night. 

CATHERINE.  [Rises  and  going  to  the  desk,  buries  her 
face  in  the  bunch  of  flowers  placed  there  in  memory  of 
PETER.]  Dear  Uncle  Peter.  .  .  . 

[MARTA  enters — pausing  to  hear  if  all  is 
quiet  in  WILLIAM'S  room.  CATHERINE, 
lifting  her  face,  sees  MARTA  and  raptur 
ously  hugs  her,  to  MARTA'S  amazement — 
then  goes  up  the  stairs. 

PETER.  [Whose  eyes  never  leave  CATHERINE.]  "  Lust 
in  Rust!"  Pleasure  and  Peace!  Amen!  [CATHERINE 
passes  into  her  room,  the  music  dying  away  as  her  door 
closes.  MARTA,  still  wondering,  goes  to  the  clock  and  winds 
it.]  PoorMarta!  Every  time  she  thinks  of  me,  she  winds 
my  clock.  We're  not  quite  forgotten. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Reappears,  carrying  WILLIAM, 
now  wrapped  up  in  an  old  fashioned  Dutch  patchwork  quilt. 
The  Doctor  has  a  lamp  in  his  free  hand.]  So  you  want  to 
go  downstairs,  eh?  Very  good!  How  do  you  feel, 
laddie? 

WILLIAM.     New  all  over. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.     [Placing  the  lamp  on  the  little  table 


210      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

right,  and  laying  WILLIAM  on  the  couch.]     Now  I'll  get  you 
the  glass  of  cold  water. 

[Goes  into  the  dining  room,  leaving  the  door  open. 

PETER.       [Calling    after     the    Doctor.']       Good     night, 

Andrew.     I'm  afraid  the  world  will  have  to  wait  a  little 

longer  for  the  big  guesser.    Drop  in  often.     I  shall  be  glad 

to  see  you  here. 

WILLIAM.  [Quickly  rising  on  the  couch,  looks  towards 
the  peg  on  which  PETER'S  hat  hung.  Calling.]  Mr.  Grimm ! 
Where  are  you?  I  knew  that  you  were  down  here.  [See 
ing  PETER.]  Oh,  I  see  you! 

[Raising  himself  to  his  knees  on  the  sofa. 
PETER.    Yes  ? 

[There  is  an  impressive  pause  and  silence  as 

they  face  each,  other. 

WILLIAM.     O,  you've   got  your  hat    .    .    .    it's   off  the 
peg.     .    .    .     You're   going.      Need   you   go   right   away — 
Mr.  Grimm?     Can't  you  wait  a  little  while? 
PETER.     I'll  wait  for  you,  William. 

WILLIAM.  May  I  go  with  you?  Thank  you.  I  couldn't 
find  the  way  without  you. 

PETER.  Yes,  you  could.  It's  the  surest  way  in  the  world. 
But  I'll  wait:  don't  worry. 

WILLIAM.     I  shan't.     [Coaxingly.~]     Don't  be  in  a  hurry. 

...     I  want — [Lies  down  happily.]  to  take  a  nap  first. 

.    .    .     I'm  sleepy.     [He  pulls  the  covering  up  and  sleeps.] 

PETER.     I  wish  you  the  pleasantest  dream  a  little  boy 

can  have  in  this  world. 

[Instantly,  as  though  the  room  were  peopled 
with  the  faint  images  of  WILLIAM'S  dream, 
the  phantom  circus  music  is  heard  with 
its  elfin  horns;  and  through  the  music, 
voices  call  "  Hai!  Hai!  "  The  sound  of 
the  cracking  of  a  whip  is  heard  and  the 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM       211 

blare  of  a  clown's  ten  cent  tin  horn.  The 
phantom  voice  of  the  Clown  (very  faint) 
calls. 

CLOWN'S  VOICE.  Billy  Miller's  big  show  and  monster 
circus  is  in  town  this  afternoon !  Don't  forget  the  date ! 
Only  one  ring — no  confusion.  Circus  day  comes  but  once 
a  year,  little  sir.  Come  early  and  see  the  wild  animals  and 
hear  the  lion  roar-r-r!  Mind:  I  shall  expect  you!  Wonder 
ful  troupe  of  trained  mice  in  the  side  show. 

[During  the  above  the  deeper  voice  of  a  haw 
ker — muffled  and  far  off — cries. 

HAWKER'S  VOICE.    Peanuts,  pop  corn,  lemonade — ice  cold 
lemo — lemo — lemonade  !    Circus  day  comes  but  once  a  year. 
[Breaking    in    through    the    music}    and    the 
voices  of  the  clown  and  hawker,  the  gruff 
voice  of  a  "  barker  "  is  heard  calling. 
BARKER'S  VOICE.     Walk  in  and  see  the  midgets  and  the 
giant!     Only  ten  cents — one  dime! 

[As  these  voices  die  away,  the  CLOWN,  whose 
voice  indicates  that  he  is  now  perched  on 
the  head  of  the  couch,  sings. 
CLOWN'S  VOICE. 

"  Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 

Ha !  Hm ! 

Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 
To  buy  his  niece — "    . 

[His  voice  ends  abruptly — the  music  stops. 

Everything    is    over.       There    is    silence. 

Then  three  clear  knocks  sound  on  the  door. 

PETER.     Come  in.     ...    [The  door  opens.     No  one  is 

there — but  a  faint  path  of  phosphorous  light  is  seen.~\     O, 

friends!     Troops  of  you!      [As  though  he  recognizes  the 

unseen  guests.~]     I've  been  gone  so  long  that  you  came  for 

me,  eh?     I'm  quite  ready  to  go  back.     I'm  just  waiting  for 


212      THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM     [Act  III 

a   happy   little    fellow   who's   going  back   with   us.     ... 
We'll  follow.     Do  you  all  go  ahead — lead  the  way. 

[He  looks  at  WILLIAM,  holds  out  his  arms  and 
WILLIAM  jumps  up  and  runs  into  them.] 
Well,  William!     You  know  better  now.     Come!      [Picking 
up  WILLIAM.]     Happy,  eh? 

WILLIAM.     [Nods,  his  face  beaming.]     Oh,  yes! 
PETER.     Let's  be  off,  then. 

[As  they  turn  towards  the  door. 

DR.  MACPHERSON.  [Re-entering,  goes  to  the  couch  with 
the  water  and  suddenly  setting  down  the  glass,  exclaims  in 
a  hushed  voice.]  My  God !  He's  dead ! 

[He  half  raises  up  the  boy  that  appears  to  be 
WILLIAM.  The  light  from  the  lamp  on  the 
table  falls  on  the  dead  face  of  the  child. 
Then  the  Doctor  gently  lays  the  boy  down 
again  on  the  couch  and  sits  pondering  over 
the  mystery  of  death. 

PETER.  [To  the  Doctor.]  O,  no!  There  never  was  so 
fair  a  prospect  for  life! 

WILLIAM.     [In  PETER'S  arms.]     I  am  happy! 

[Outside  a  hazy  moonlight  shimmers.  A 
•few  stars  twinkle  in  the  far-away  sky; 
and  the  low  moon  is  seen  back  of  the  old 
windmill. 

PETER.  [To  WILLIAM.]  If  the  rest  of  them  only  knew 
what  they're  missing,  eh? 

WILLIAM.  [Begins  to  sing,  joyously.]  "  Uncle  Rat  has 
gone  to  town." 

[PETER  dances  up  a  few  steps  towards  the 

door,  singing  with  WILLIAM. 
PETER.     WILLIAM.     [Together.] 
"Ha!    Hm! 
Uncle  Rat  has  gone  to  town, 


Act  III]     THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM 

To  buy  his  niece  a  wedding  gown. 
Ha!    Hm!" 

PETER.     [Gives  one  last  fond  look  towards  CATHERINE'S 
room      To  WILLIAM.]     We're  off! 

[Putting  the  boy  over  his  shoulder,  they  sing 
together,    as    they    go    up,    the    phantom 
circus  music  accompanying  them. 
PETER.    WILLIAM.     [Together.'] 

"  What  shall  the  wedding  breakfast  be. 

Ha!    Hm!" 
PETER.     [Alone.] 

"What  shall  the  wedding  breakfast  be? 

Hard  boiled  eggs  and  a  cup  of  tea." 
PETER.    WILLIAM.     [Together."] 
"Ha!    Hm!" 

[PETER  GRIMM  has  danced  off  with  the  child 
through  the  faint  path  of  light.  As  he 
goes,  the  wind  or  an  unseen  hand  closes 
the  door  after  them.  There  is  a  mo 
ment's  pause  until  their  voices  are  no 
longer  heard — then  the  curtain  slowly 
descends.  The  air  of  the  song  is  taken 
up  by  an  unseen  orchestra  and  continues 
as  the  audience  passes  out. 
Curtain. 


' 


S 
\ 


ROMANCE 

By 

EDWARD  SHELDON 

"  My  thoughts  at  the  end  of  the  long,  long  day 
Fly  over  the  hills  and  far  away — " 

EDWARD  BREWSTER  SHELDON  was  born  in  Chicago,  Feb 
ruary  4>,  1886.  Harvard  was  his  college,  from  which  he 
was  graduated  in  1907  and  where  he  received  his  master's 
degree  in  1908.  His  plays  are  Salvation  Nell  (1908),  The 
Boss  (1911),  Princess  Zim  Zim  (1911),  Egypt  (1912),, 
The  High  Road  (1912),  Romance  (1913),  Song  of  Songs 
(1914)  and  The  Garden  of  Paradise  (1915). 

Romance  was  first  produced  at  Maxine  Elliott's  Theatre, 
New  York,  Monday,  February  10,  1913,  with  Miss  Doris 
Keane  in  the  leading  role  as  Mme.  Margherita  Cavallini. 
It  was  later  produced  in  London,  where  its  "  run  "  of  over 
one  thousand  nights  was  one  of  the  longest  on  record.  In 
the  spring  of  1920,  it  was  produced  as  a  motion  picture 
with  Miss  Keane  in  the  leading  role. 


[Copyright;  1912,  1913,  1914,  by  Edward  Sheldon;   Copyright  in 
the  Dominion  of  Canada;  Copyright  in  Great  Britain] 


CHARACTERS 
IN  THE  PROLOGUE  AND  EPILOGUE: 

HARRY 

J-  his  gra 

IN  THE  STORY: 


BISHOP  ARMSTRONG 


_  r  his  grandchildren 

&UZETTE   \ 


'THOMAS  ARMSTRONG,  Miss  SNYDER 

Rector   of  St.   Giles  MR.  FRED  LIVINGSTONE 

1    CORNELIUS  VAN  TUYL,  MR.  HARRY  PUTNAM 

of  Van  Tuyl  &  Co.,  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI 

Bankers  BAPTISTS 

SUSAN  VAN  TUYL,  Louis 

his  niece  FRA^OIS 

Miss  ARMSTRONG,  EUGENE 

the  Rector's  aunt.  W^ADOLPH 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD  SERVANT  AT  MR.  VAN  TUYL'S 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM  BUTLER  AT  THE  RECTORY 

Miss  FROTHINGHAM  MME.  MARGHERITA  CAVALLINI 
MRS.  GRAY 

'THE  PROLOGUE:  The  Bishop's  library  in  his  house  on  Wash 
ington  Square.  New  Year's  Eve. 
About  ten  o'clock. 

THE  STORY:  Act  I.  Over  forty  years  ago.  At  Cornelius 
Van  Tuyl's  house, — 58  Fifth  Avenue. 
A  November  evening. 

Act  II.  The  study  in  the  Rectory  of  St. 
Giles',  East  8th  Street.  The  after 
noon  of  New  Year's  Eve. 
Act  III.  Late  that  night.  Mme.  Caval- 
lini's  apartments  in  the  Brevoort 
House.  After  her  farewell  appear 
ance  as  "  Mignon." 

'THE  EPILOGUE:  The  Bishop's  library  again.     Midnight. 

PLACE:  New  York.  TIME:   Now  and  the   1860's. 


ROMANCE 

THE  PROLOGUE 

[SCENE:  The  Bishop's  library  in  Washington  Square.  At 
right  are  two  windows,  with  heavy  curtains  drawn. 
At  left  is  a  large  fireplace,  with  a  white  marble  mantel. 
At  back  is  the  door  leading  to  the  rest  of  the  house. 
There  are  high  bookcases,  running  up  to  the  ceiling,  set 
in  both  walls  wherever  there  is  any  space.  In  a  corner 
at  back  stands  a  Fictrola,  of  sober  mahogany.  Before 
the  fireplace,  half  facing  the  audience,  is  the  Bishop's 
big  armchair.  At  right,  is  a  big  mahogany  table-desk^ 
arranged  in  an  orderly  way  with  electric  lamp,  tele 
phone,  desk-furniture,  books,  memoranda,  files,  etc. 
The  chair  is  behind  it,  between  the  windows.  The 
whole  room  is  one  of  quiet  dignity, — slightly  old- 
fashioned  in  effect,  and  very  comfortable. 

It  is  night.  The  lamp  on  the  desk  is  turned  on  and 
there  is  a  cheerful  wood  fire  burning.  In  his  armchair 
before  the  fire  sits  Bishop  Armstrong.  He  is  a  charm 
ing,  drily  humorous  old  man  of  about  seventy.  Suzette, 
— a  decided  young  woman  of  seventeen, — is  sitting  at 
the  desk,  reading  aloud  from  the  evening  paper.'] 

SUZETTE.     [Skimming  over  the  headlines.]     "  Regulation 
of     Skyscrapers — Drastic     Measures — "       [She     yawns.] 
"  Borough  President  Gives  to  Board  of  Estimates  the  Re 
port    on    Improvement."       [Looking    up.}      Sounds    dulL 
doesn't  it? 

217 


,218  ROMANCE  [Prologue 

THE  BISHOP.     No — but  if  you  think  so,  try  the  next. 

SUZETTE.  [Reading.']  "  President  in  the  West — Yes 
terday's  Speech  at  Cheyenne  " — Is  that  the  way  you  pro 
nounce  it? — "  Crops,  Race  Suicide,  and  Tariff  Reform." 
[As  the  noise  of  horns  drifts  in  from  the  street.']  Oh,  I 
do  wish  those  boys  would  stop ! 

THE  BISHOP.     [Philosophically.]     It's  New  Year's  Eve. 

SUZETTE.  I  know,  but  they  needn't  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it.  [Returning  to  her  paper.]  The  President  talked 
two  and  a  half  columns  and  he  looks  dreadfully  dull.  Do 
j-ou  want  me  to  read  him  ?  Now,  grandpa,  speak  the  truth  ! 
Wouldn't  you  much  rather  have  me  start  the  Victrola? 

THE  BISHOP.  Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  I  would.  Where's 
Harry?  He  said  he  wanted  to  speak  to  me  after  dinner 
.about  something  important. 

SUZETTE.  [Busy  with  the  Victrola.]  Oh,  he  just  went 
out.  He'll  be  back  soon.  [The  song  begins.]  There, 
grandpa  !  Isn't  that  a  splendid  record  ? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Singing.]  Ta-ta-ta-ta!  Yes — a  very 
line  voice.  Who  is  it? 

SUZETTE.     Tetrazzini. 

THE  BISHOP.  Ah,  you  should  have  heard  Patti  sing  this 
at  the  Academy  in  '72 — ! 

SUZETTE.  Now,  grandpa,  I  can't  help  being  young,  and 
anyway  I'm  sure  that  Garden  and  Fremstad  and  Farrar 
are  every  bit  as  good  as  your  Grisis  and  Pattis  and  Caval- 
linis.  And  as  for  Caruso — ! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Softly.]  I  have  heard  Mario !  [Hum 
ming  again.]  Ta-ta-ta-ta!  Now  for  the  cadenza — [He 
listens.]  Fair — quite  fair!  [With  a  sigh.]  After  all, 
there's  no  one  like  Verdi! 

SUZETTE.     Grandpa. 

THE  BISHOP.     Yes,  dear? 

.SUZETTE.     [Beguilingly.]     Which  do  you  think  would  be 


Prologue]  ROMANCE 

more  apt  to  melt  you  into  a  perfectly  angelic,  Bavarian- 
cream  sort  of  mood — 0  Parigi  from  Traviata  or  the  Sextette 
from  Lucia? 

THE  BISHOP.  I'm  melted  already.  I'm  just  running 
over  the  side  of  the  dish. 

SUZETTE.  Really?  No,  I  think  you  need  one  more.  I 
want  you  very,  very  soft.  [Picking  out  a  fresh  record.^ 
Oh,  here's  a  brand-new  Destinn  !  That'll  do  it ! 

THE  BISHOP.     What's  the  opera? 

SUZETTE.  [Adjusting  the  record.]  Wait  and  see.  [The 
voice  is  heard.]  Do  you  remember  it? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Looking  away.]  Yes — yes,  I  remember 
—  [He  rouses  himself  suddenly.]  Don't  play  that,  Suzette, 
I  know  I'm  foolish,  but  it  makes  me  rather  sad. 

SUZETTE.  [Stopping  the  record.]  I  thought  you'd  like 
it.  It's  from  Mignon. 

THE  BISHOP.  Yes,  I  know — but — [In  a  different  tone.~\ 
Suppose  we  have  a  little  Harry  Lauder  for  a  change? 

SUZETTE.  [Adjusting  the  record.']  Grandpa,  your  taste 
in  music  is  low.  That's  the  only  word.  And  I've  tried  so 
hard  to  uplift  it.  Just  think  of  those  wonderful  Boston 
Symphony  concerts  I  dragged  you  to  last  winter !  And  now 
I  think  you'd  rather  hear  /  Love  a  Lassie  than  Beethoven? 

THE  BISHOP.     [Tranquilly.']     I  would  indeed. 

SUZETTE.  And  you  a  Bishop  of  the  Episcopal  Church  I 
[She  starts  the  machine.']  There! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  singing1 
under  his  breath.] 

"I  love  a  lassief 
A  bonny  Highland  lassie — 
She's  the—" 

SUZETTE.  [Coming  and  perching  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.]  Oh,  grandpa,  you  are  such  a  dear  old — baby!. 

THE  BISHOP.     Yes,  ma'am? 


220  ROMANCE  [Prologue  » 

SUZETTE.    And  I  know  I  bully  you  an  awful  lot.   Don't  I  ? 

THE  BISHOP.    Well,  I'm  used  to  it! 

SUZETTE.  How  horrid  of  you!  Why,  I  don't  bully  you 
at  all!  Of  course  there  are  times  when  you  do  need  dis 
ciplining — 

THE  BISHOP.  [Smiling.]  So  your  grandmother  used  to 
tell  me. 

SUZETTE.    And  you  haven't  anyone  to  do  it  except  me. 

THE  BISHOP.     I  know. 

SUZETTE.  [Softening.]  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think 
Xm  a  tyrant — especially  to-night ! 

THE  BISHOP.    To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  holiday? 

SUZETTE.    Well,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you. 

THE  BISHOP.     Yes? 

SUZETTE.    And  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  you'll  like  it. 

THE  BISHOP.     I  like  everything.     It's  my  greatest  fault ! 

SUZETTE.  [Suddenly  smiling.']  Oh!  oh!  What  about 
Wagner  ? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Firmly.]  Except  Wagner.  Yes,  that's 
true — I  can't  stand  Wagner! 

SUZETTE.    Well,  I  doubt  if  you  can  stand  this,  either. 

THE  BISHOP.     Suppose  you  give  me  a  try!  ; 

SUZETTE.    All  right.     [She  stops  the  record.]    It's  Harry.  , 

THE  BISHOP.     I  thought  so. 

SUZETTE.     He's  gone  and  done  it. 

THE  BISHOP.     What? 

SUZETTE.  [All  in  a  rush.]  I  mean  he  hasn't  really 
gone  and  done  it,  -because  he  naturally  can't  do  anything 
without  her  and  she  says  she  won't  do  a  thing  until  she's 
met  you  and  you've  said  it's  all  right,  so  that's  why  Harry 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  to-night  and  you  mustn't  breathe 
one  word  about  my  telling  you — you  see,  he's  planning  to 
do  it  all  himself,  but  when  he  said  he  thought  the  shock 
would  kill  you  and  he'd  be  held  up  for  "  episcocide  " — yes. 


Prologue]  ROMANCE  221 

that's  what  he  called  it! — I  thought  I'd  better  break  it  to 
you  gently.  [Slight  pause.]  Don't  you  think  I've  been 
wise,  grandpa,  to  break  it  to  you  gently? 

THE  BISHOP.  You  haven't  broken  it  at  all,  my  dear.  I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 

SUZETTE.  Why,  grandpa,  I've  just  told  you!  Harry's 
engaged  to  a  girl  named  Lucile  Anderson ! 

THE  BISHOP.  Oh!  I  must  be  getting  deaf.  Dear  me! 
And  who  is  Lucile  Anderson? 

SUZETTE.    Well,  that's  just  it.    Lucile's  an — an  artist. 

THE  BISHOP.     You  mean  she  paints  ? 

SUZETTE.  No,  she  doesn't  exactly  paint.  You  know, 
there're  all  kinds  of  artists,  grandpa,  and  Lucile — well, 
Lucile's  art  is — er— a  very  beautiful  art,  it's  the  art  of — 
er — 

THE  BISHOP.    Well? 

SUZETTE.  The  art  of — er — impersonation  on  the  stage. 
[Slight  pause.] 

THE  BISHOP.     In  short,  the  young  lady  is  an  actress. 

SUZETTE.  Yes.  [Nervously.]  Well,  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  Lots  of  nice  girls  are  nowadays. 

THE  BISHOP.     [To  himself.]     An  actress — ! 

SUZETTE.  [Bursting  out.]  But  she's  a  perfect  dear  and 
her  father  was  a  well-known  lawyer  in  Toronto,  Canada, 
but  he  died  and  left  her  without  a  cent  and  her  influence 
over  Harry  is  very,  very  good  and  I'm  sure  you'll  love  her 
when -you  get  to  know  her — I  do,  anyway,  and  I've  only 
seen  her  four  times —  [Coaxtngly.]  Grandpa,  say  it's  all 
right,  please !  Remember — it's  our  own  Harry ! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Drily.]  That's  just  what  I  am  remem 
bering,  dear.  He  always  did  have  very  little  sense ! 

SUZETTE.  [Reproachfully.]  Why,  grandpa,  he  played 
quarter  on  the  Varsity !  And  you  said  yourself  that  took 
a  lot  of  brains ! 


222  ROMANCE  [Prologue 

THE  BISHOP.  [Smiling.]  Did  I?  Well,  this  proves  I 
was  mistaken. 

SUZETTE.  Oh,  dear!  I —  [Suddenly.]  Wait!  I  heard 
the  front-door !  That's  Harry — !  [She  slips  off  the  arm  of 
his  chair.]  Now  remember !  Don't  you  get  me  into  trouble ! 

THE  BISHOP.     I  won't! 

SUZETTE.     Promise? 

THE  BISHOP.  Cross  my  heart  and  hope  to  die !  [Enter 
Harry.  He  is  an  attractive  young  man  of  about  twenty- 
two  or  three — restless,  young  and  impetuous.  He  wears  a 
dinner-coat.]  Well!  We'd  almost  given  you  up! 

HARRY.  [Ill  at  ease.]  I  had  to  make  a  call.  Didn't 
Suzie  tell  you? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Tranquilly.]  Oh,  yes,  she  said  some 
thing  or  other.  Well,  what  about  our  little  chat? 

HARRY.  [Nervously.]  Your — your  rheumatism  isn't 
bothering  you  too  much,  is  it,  sir  ?  To-morrow  would— 

THE  BISHOP.  Oh  no !  Suzie's  played  all  my  aches  away 
with  Rigoletto  and  Trovatore.  I'm  fit  as  a  fiddle,  my  boy, 
so  put  another  log  on  the  fire  and  go  ahead. 

HARRY.     All  right,  sir. 

[He  puts  on  the  log,  motioning  the  while  for 
Suzette  to  leave. 

SUZETTE.  [To  the  Bishop.]  I'll  come  in  later  and  finish 
the  Post  to  you  before  you  go  to  bed.  [To  Harry,  in  a 
lower  voice.]  Don't  worry!  I've  got  him  going! 

HARRY.     Thanks,  old  girl.     [She  goes  out.] 

HARRY.  [Turning  resolutely  to  the  Bishop.]  Grand 
father,  I  have  something  I  want  to — 

THE  BISHOP.  [Gently.]  If  you  go  to  my  desk,  Harry, 
and  open  the  second  drawer  from  the  top  on  the  left-hand 
side,  I  think  you'll  see  a  box  of  cigars.  [As  Harry  obeys.] 
Thank  you.  Can  you  find  them?  [Harry  returns  with  the 
box.]  Won't  you  have  one?  [Harry  shakes  his  head.] 


Prologue]  ROMANCE  223 

I  know  they're  not  as  good  as  yours,  but  I  can't  afford  the 
very  best  brands. 

HARRY.  I  don't  feel  like  smoking  now.  Grandfather, 
I've  come  to  you  in  order  to — 

THE  BISHOP.  [Gently  interrupting.']  Er — just  one 
moment.  I  haven't  any  match. 

HARRY.  Oh  Lord !  Excuse  me !  [ H e  lights  the  Bishop's 
cigar.']  There!  Now  I  want  to  tell  you  what's  on  my 
mind,,  grandfather.  It's  been  there  for  some  time  and  I 
— I— 

THE  BISHOP.     Yes? 

HARRY.  [Embarrassed.']  I  think  I  ought  to — to  get  it 
off. 

THE  BISHOP.     Well? 

HARRY.     You  see — it's  this  way.     [Pause.] 

THE  BISHOP.     [Mildly.]     What  way? 

HARRY.  Hang  it,  I  don't  know  how  to  put  the  thing,  but 
— but — [Looking  up  and  seeing  the  Bishop  smiling  at  him.] 
Well,  I'll  be — !  You're  on !  You've  been  on  all  the  time ! 

THE  BISHOP.  Your  intuition  is  overwhelming,  Harry, — 
but  it's  correct.  As  you  say, — I'm  on.  [Pause.] 

HARRY.  [Wrathfully  looking  at  door.]  I  might  have 
known  no  girl  could  keep  a  secret ! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Hastily.]  It's  my  fault!  I  wrung  it  out 
of  her !  I  kicked  her  shins  !  I  squeezed  her  neck !  I — 
twisted  her  arm ! 

HARRY.  [Disgusted.]  And  now  you're  making  fun  of 
me!  Well — !  [He  straightens  up  defiantly.] 

THE  BISHOP.  [Suddenly  tender.]  I'm  not  making  fun 
of  you,  Harry. 

HARRY.  [Uncomfortably.]  I  meant  to  tell  you  myself 
about  Lucile.  I  didn't  want  anybody  else  butting  in. 

THE  BISHOP.  Of  course — I  know.  You  must  love  her  a 
great  deal! 


224  ROMANCE  [Prologue 

HARRY.     [Still  a  little  sulkily.]     Well,  I  do. 

THE  BISHOP.     And  she's  very  pretty,  isn't  she? 

HARRY.      [Brightening.]      Did   Suzie  tell   you? 

THE  BISHOP.     No — I  just  guessed — that's  all. 

HARRY.  [Enthusiastically.]  And  she's  awfully  clever,  too 
— acts  like  a  streak — and  she  has  just  bunches  of  char 
acter  !  Why,  when  it  comes  down  to  it,  she's  ten  times  too 
good  for  me!  She's  just  too  wonderful  for  anything! 

THE  BISHOP.  [With  a  little  smile.]  Of  course  she  is 
— of  course — of  course. 

HARRY.  I  met  her  at  the  Randalls' — you  know,  that 
painter  fellow — and  now  she's  all  alone  in  a  rotten  board 
ing-house  on  Tenth  Street  and  she  has  no  work  and  her 
family  are  all  dead — and  so  I  really  think  I  ought  to  marry 
her  right  off.  Now  don't  you  agree  with  me?  [Pause.] 
Well?  Don't  you? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Rousing  himself  with  an  effort.]  I  don't 
know,  Harry.  You  see,  you're  so  young — you're  just  be 
ginning  life,  and  you  may  change,  and  grow,  my  dear  boy, 
there  may  come  a  time  when  you'll  need  more  than  any 
little  actress  can  ever  give  you — [Harry  makes  a  move 
ment.]  Oh,  it's  all  right  now,  you  love  her — I  know 
that!  But  are  you  quite  sure,  Harry,  that  you'll  always 
love  her  just  the  way  you  love  her  now  and  nothing  hidden 
in  the  future — or  in  the  past — can  ever  shake  your  faith  and 
beat  you  down  and  break  your  heart? 

HARRY.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

THE  BISHOP.  You  must  be  very,  very  sure,  my  boy — 
or  else  you're  not  fair  to  yourself — and  what's  worse — I'm 
afraid  you're  not  fair  to  her. 

HARRY.  [Bursting  out.]  Oh,  what's  the  good  of  talk 
ing!  I  just  knew  it  would  be  this  way !  There's  absolutely 
no  use  trying  to  do  things  with  my  family — they're  all  alike 
— look  at  Uncle  Thomas  and  Aunt  Sarah  and  Cousin  Ralph 


Prologue]  ROMANCE  225 

and  the  whole  crowd  of  them — narrow,  conventional,  dry- 
as-dust!  [Turning  away  suddenly.]  If  only  dad  and 
mummy  were  alive,  they'd  understand ! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Hurt.]  Don't  say  things  like  that, 
Harry !  You  know  I've  done  my  best  for  Suzette  and 
you. 

HARRY.  [Penitent.]  I  know  you  have.  I  didn't  mean 
that,  grandpa.  But  you  see,  it's  a  long  time  now  since 
you've  been  young  and  I  think  it's  sort  of  hard  for  you  to 
remember  back  and  realize  what  it's  like  and — sympathise 
with  a  fellow!  [Going  on  quickly.]  Oh,  I  know  you're 
awfully  wise  and  you  can  see  clear  through  people  and 
understand  'em  that  way,  but  this  is  different — I  don't  be 
lieve  you  ever  felt  the  way  I'm  feeling  now — and  so — 
[Gulping.]  Oh,  well,  there's  no  use  going  on.  Thanks 
for  trying,  grandpa — I  won't  keep  you  up  any  longer. 
[He  is  at  the  door  ready  to  leave.] 

THE  BISHOP.     Where  are  you  going? 

HARRY.     [A  trifle  defiantly.]     I'm  going  to  get  married. 

THE  BISHOP.     To-night? 

HARRY.  Yes,  we  got  the  license  this  afternoon.  [Slight 
pause.] 

THE  BISHOP.     Come  in,  Harry,  and  shut  the  door. 

HARRY.      [Doing  so.]     What  do  you  want? 

THE  BISHOP.  You  said  I  couldn't  remember  back  and 
realize  how  one  felt  when  one  was  young — and  life  was 
just  a  glorious  chaos  of  passion  and  beauty  and  despair. 
Well,  I  do  remember.  Because  no  matter  how  old  one 
grows,  Harry,  there  are  always  some  things  that  keep  a 
little  youth  still  burning  in  one's  heart. 

HARRY.     I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  grandpa. 

THE  BISHOP.  You  didn't,  my  dear  boy.  But  you've 
made  me  think  of  something  that  I'd  supposed  I'd  forgot 
ten — it's  so  long  ago  since  it  came  up  in  my  mind.  It's 


226  ROMANCE  [Prologue 

something  I  never  told  to  anyone  before — I  used  to  think 
I  never  would.  Oh,  well — times  change,  and  I  didn't 
realize  then  I  was  to  have  a  grandson  just  like  you.  I 
wonder,  Harry,  if  you'll  have  time  to  wait  and  hear  about 
it? 

HARRY.  [Distrust fully.']  If  you  think  it's  anything 
that's  going  to  change  my  mind  about  Lucile,  you  might  as 
well  stop  right  here.  [As  the  Bishop  rises  with  difficulty 
and  goes  slowly  over  to  the  desk.]  What  is  it,  grandpa? 
Can't  I  get  it? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Suddenly,  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath.] 
A-ah! 

HARRY.     [Sympathetically.]     Your  rheumatism,  sir? 

THE  BISHOP.      [With  a  smile.]     Don't  mention  rheuma 
tism  now,  my  boy!      [He  stands  for  a  moment  above  the 
desk  and  shuts  his  eyes.]     I'm  only  twenty-eight  years  old! 
[Taking  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket,  he 
unlocks  a  lower  drawer  and,  after  some 
fumbling,  comes  up  with  a  small  mahogany 
box  which  he  lays  on  the  desk  before  him. 

THE  BISHOP.     Do  you  know  what's  in  this  little  box? 

HARRY.     No,  sir.     What? 

THE  BISHOP.  [With  a  radiant  smile.]  Romance,  my 
boy — the  perfume  of  romance ! 

HARRY.     How — how  do  you  mean,  sir? 

THE  BISHOP.     Look ! 

[He  opens  the  box  and  takes  out  a  little  wisp 
of  lace. 

HARRY.  [Awed.]  What  is  it,  grandpa?  A  handker 
chief? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Nodding.]  A  little  handkerchief.  [He 
undoes  it  and  discloses  a  few  old  flowers.]  White  violets 
—  [He  sniffs  them,  then  smiles  and  shakes  his  head.] 
They're  dried  and  yellow  now.  Their  sweetness  is  all  gone. 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  227 

I'm  an  old  man,  Harry,  but  somehow — why,  it  seems  like 
yesterday — 

HARRY.  [Wonderingly.]  What,  sir? 
THE  BISHOP.  [Turning  out  the  desk-lamp,  and  crossing 
to  his  chair  again,  holding  the  flowers  and  handkerchief 
very  carefully  in  his  hands.]  Ah,  that's  what  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  now!  Sit  down,  my  boy — [As  Harry  obeys.']  Are 
you  comfortable  there?  That's  right! — Well,  it  was  over 
forty  years  ago — forty  years — dear  me,  how  the  time  flies ! 
— and  I  was  the  young  Rector  of  St.  Giles,  you  know.  That 
was  before  I  married  your  grandmother — God  bless  her! 
— although  I'd  known  her  nearly  all  my  life.  Well,  Harry, 
one  night — in  November,  it  was — I  went  to  an  evening 
party  at  old  Cornelius  Van  Tuyl's  house  and  there  in  that 
kaleidoscope  of  jewels  and  flowers  and  crinolines  the  great 
adventure  of  my  life  began — 

[And,  as  he  speaks,  from  far  away  comes  the 
sound  of  a  quaint  old  polka,  and  Harry 
and  the  Bishop  and  the  whole  room  melt 
into  the  dark.  The  music  swells  and  the 
lights,  blooming  again  from  crystal  chan 
deliers,  reveal  the  living  vision  of  the  past. 


ACT  I 

[SCENE :  Evening  reception  at  MR.  CORNELIUS  VAN  TUYL'S 
house,  about  1867.  It  is  a  small  upstairs  drawing- 
room.  In  the  center  is  the  stairway  leading  to  the 
rooms  below.  At  left  is  the  door  to  the  library.  In 
foreground,  at  right,  there  is  a  couch,  turned  slightly 

»to  face  the  audience.  At  its  head  stands  a  small, 
marble-topped  table.  At  left  of  foreground  is  a  tete-a- 
tete  chair.  A  seat  runs  along  the  balustrade  which 


228  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

encircles  the  staircase  well.  Lamps  in  the  foreground 
shed  a  mellow  light  which  contrasts  with  the  brilliance 
reflected  from  the  rooms  below. 

The  lights  go  up  upon  an  animated  scene.  The  little 
room  is  filed  with  people.  At  back,  leaning  on  the 
balustrade  which  surrounds  the  well,  stand  two  men- 
about-town,  looking  out  over  the  rooms  below.  Near 
them  are  a  young  man  and  a  girl,  talking,  laughing,  and 
flirting.  Another  young  man  and  a  girl — she  on  his 
arm — cross  the  stage,  chatting  gaily.  They  turn, 
descend  the  staircase,  and  disappear.  MRS.  RUTHER 
FORD, — a  rather  pretty,  affected  woman, — is  sitting  on 
the  couch  at  right.  Beside  her  is  Miss  SUSAN  VAN 
TUYL,  a  sensible,  attractive  young  woman  of  about 
twenty-five,  dressed  simply  and  charmingly  in  white. 
They  are  listening  to  MR.  HARRY  PUTNAM,  an  elderly 
beau  of  the  period,  who  stands  tzvirling  his  moustaches, 
his  feet  crossed,  ogling  and  talking  to  them.  MRS. 
FROTHINGHAM, — a  buxom,  florid  dowager,  very  richly 
and  fussily  dressed, — sits  on  the  tete-a-tete  at  left  with 
her  daughter,  a  pretty  young  girl  of  eighteen. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  [To  the  young  girl  on  his  arm,  as 
they  cross  the  stage.']  A  very  brilliant  party,  don't  you 
think? 

THE  GIRL.  Oh,  quite  the  most  elegant  affair  of  the 
winter!  [They  turn  to  the  stairs.] 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  [To  another  young  man  just  coming 
up.]  Oh,  Frank,  is  the  dancing  saloon  crowded? 

THE  SECOND  YOUNG  MAN.  Not  just  now.  They're  be 
ginning  to  serve  supper. 

THE  FIRST  YOUNG  MAN.  [To  the  girl]  Splendid! 

[They  go  downstairs. 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  229 

THE  SECOND  YOUNG  MAN.  [To  MRS.  FROTHINGHAM, 
with  a  bow.]  Mrs.  Frothingham,  may  I  have  the  honor 
of  this  polka? 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  You  droll  wretch,  don't  you  know 
my  dancing  days  are  over? 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  [To  the  girl.']  Miss  Frothingham, 
then,  may  be  persuaded  to  atone  for — 

Miss  FROTHINGHAM.  [Rising.]  Of  course  I  may !  I 
love  to  polk!  [They  turn  towards  the  stairs. 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  [Rising.]  My  dearest  Susan — 
Agatha — forgive  me  if  I  come  and  talk  to  you. 

[She  joins  the  group  at  couch — right.  Mean 
while  the  two  men-about-town  are  heard 
to  speak  from  the  balustrade,  where  they 
are  looking  at  crowd  below. 

THE  FIRST  MAN.  Who's  that  woman  with  the  diamonds 
— down  there  by  the  door?  I  thought  at  first  it  might  be 
Cavallini. 

THE  SECOND  MAN.      [Turning  away.]      No,  Cavallini's 
singing  that  new  opera — what's  its  name? 
FIRST  MAN.    Mignon? 

THE  SECOND  MAN.  Mignon — of  course !  She's  still  at 
the  Academy — she  won't  be  here  till  twelve. 

THE  FIRST  MAN.  Shall  we  have  supper  now  or  shall  we 
wait? 

THE  SECOND  MAN.  Now,  my  dear  chap,  now!  This 
is  one  of  the  few  houses  where  Blue  Seal  Johannisberger 
flows  like  water. 

THE  FIRST.  [At  the  stairs.]  And  the  '48  claret!  I'd 
forgotten  that — 

[They  disappear  below,  talking.  A  burst 
of  laughter  from  the  girl  who  is  flirting 
with  the  young  man  at  the  back  of  the 
scene. 


230  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

THE  GIRL.  You  mustn't  talk  to  me  that  way  any  more ! 
Now  give  me  your  arm  and  take  me  downstairs  to  mamma- — 

HER  PARTNER.  Do  you  know  you  have  exactly  the  same 
effect  on  me  as  a  glass  of  champagne ! 

THE  GIRL.  [At  the  top  of  the  stairs.']  Of  course,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  that ! 

HER  PARTNER.  No,  of  course  not.  It  doesn't  last  long 
— still — while  it  lasts — 

[They  descend,  talking  and  laughing. 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  [Sitting  on  the  couch,  at  right.] 
You  can  say  what  you  please,  Miss  Van  Tuyl,  the  Rector's 
nose  is  not  Grecian ! 

SUSAN.  [Very  politely.]  Dear  Mrs.  Frothingham,  are 
noses  your  only  standard? 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.  [Shaking  her  head.]  Ah,  well — 
nis  grandfather  on  his  mother's  side  came  of  very  doubtful 
stock!  An  Irish  peasant,  I  believe — he  landed  sometime" 
about  1805. 

SUSAN.  Surely,  Mrs.  Rutherford,  your  memory  doesn't 
take  you  quite  as  far  back  as  all  that? 

PUTNAM,  And  to  think  we  are  condemned  to  listen  to  his 
sermons!  Why,  last  Sunday  I  woke  up  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  young  puppy  making  scurrilous  allusions  to  me — / 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  To  you,  Mr.  Putnam?  Dear  me, 
I  regret  exceedingly  that  my  neuralgia  kept  me  from  at 
tending  church!  What  did  he — ? 

SUSAN.  He  said  he  didn't  doubt  that  several  of  our 
elderly  beaux  would  soon  be  making  Heaven  fashionable 
and  organizing  society  among  the  more  exclusive  angels ! 

[ToM  is  seen  leisurely  coming  upstairs.  He 
is  about  twenty-eight,  healthy,  positive, 
and  determined.  He  is  dressed  very 
simply  and  a  little  shabbily.  He  has  a 
very  hearty,  genial  quality,  but  no  humor.] 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  231 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.     Abominable ! 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.     Blasphemous,  I  call  it ! 

PUTNAM.     Hardly  the  remark  of  a  gentleman! 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.     But  he's  not  a  gentleman! 

PUTNAM.     He  dresses  like  a  pen-wiper! 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.  He  spends  all  his  spare  time  with 
working  men ! 

PUTNAM.  [To  SUSAN.]  My  dear  young  lady,  why  your 
excellent  uncle  ever  gave  him  the  church  is  more  than  I 
shall  ever  understand ! 

SUSAN.  Because  uncle  knows  he's  the  coming  man — 
that's  why!  Look  what  he's  done  here  in  just  these  two 
years !  Hasn't  he  built  up  the  congregation  from  nothing  at 
all  to  the  third  biggest  in  New  York?  Hasn't  he  started  the 
athletic  club  for  the  young  men  and  the  cooking  classes  for 
the  girls?  Hasn't  he  founded  our  parish  school  for  poor 
children,  and  got  people  to  donate  a  playground,  and  a 
circulating  library,  and  a  big  hall  for  free  lectures  and 
musical  entertainments?  Isn't  he  just  as  much  at  home 
and  just  as  much  loved  down  in  a  Bowery  saloon  as  he  is 
here  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  drawing-room?  Isn't  he — 

PUTNAM.    My  dear  Miss  Van  Tuyl! 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.     He's  impossible! 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.     Outrageous ! 

PUTNAM.     A  blot  on  the  parish! 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.    A  disgrace  to  the  church — 

PUTNAM.  [Suddenly  seeing  TOM.]  Er — what  wonder 
ful  weather  we're  having! 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.  [To  MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.]  Rather 
cold  for  November,  don't  you  think? 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  [Trembling.]  Yes — yes — very 
warm  indeed — 

SUSAN.  [Bewildered.]  But — [She  turns  and  sees  TOM.] 
Oh,  I  see!  [Smiling.]  We're  talking  about  you,  Tom. 


232  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

TOM.     [Briefly.]     I  heard.     Thank  you,  Susan. 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.  [Rising.]  We  were  all  saying  the 
most  flattering  things — 

MRS.  FROTHINHAM.  [Rising.]  Dear  Dr.  Armstrong,  I 
— I  wonder  your  ears  weren't  burning — 

PUTNAM.  [Laughing  nervously.]  By  Jove,  yes — so 
do  I! 

TOM.     Don't  let  me  drive  you  away. 

MRS.  FROTHINGHAM.  Er — I  must  look  after  Mabel.  I 
mustn't  let  the  dear  child  dance  too  much ! 

PUTNAM.  And  I  was  on  the  point  of  offering  Mrs. 
Rutherford  some  supper. 

MRS.  RUTHERFORD.  How  very  kind!  [To  SUSAN.]  Au 
revoir,  my  dear — good-night,  Dr.  Armstrong. 

MRS.   FROTHINGHAM.     Good-night — good-night. 

PUTNAM.      [Bowing.]     Your  servant. 

[The  three  go  downstairs. 

SUSAN.  [After  them.]  Don't  go  before  Madame  Caval- 
lini  comes — she's  promised  to  sing  for  us  and  you  know 
what  that  means!  Au  revoir — au  revoir!  [Turning  to 
TOM.]  Cats!  Two  tabbies  and  one  old  torn!  Did  you 
hear  what  they  were  saying? 

TOM.  Just  a  little.  [Loftily.]  What  does  it  matter? 
They're  not  the  people  I  care  about — they're  not  the  people 
that  really  count! 

SUSAN.  I  know.  But  I  just  can't  bear  their  criticizing 
you!  [Looking  at  him.]  Oh,  Tom!  You've  got  on  your 
oldest  clothes  !  Why  couldn't  you  have  stopped  to  dress  ? 

TOM.  Well,  I  was  going  to,  honestly  I  was.  But  this 
is  my  night  at  the  athletic  club  and  about  ten  o'clock,  just 
as  I'd  taken  on  the  heavyweight  of  the  ward,  little  Jimmy 
Baxter  came  running  in  and  said  young  Sullivan  was  drunk 
and  killing  his  wife  so  would  I  please  step  over?  [Noticing 
her  glance.]  What  are  you  looking  at? 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  233 

SUSAN.     Your  hair! 

TOM.      [Feeling  it.]     Is  it  sticking  up  behind? 

SUSAN.    Just  one  lock — on  the  left.     [Coming  up  to  him.] 
Bend  over!       [Fie  does  so  and  she  smooths  it  down,  as  he 
goes  on  talking. 

TOM.  [Going  on  all  the  time.]  And  I  found  Sullivan 
in  a  fighting  mood  and  rather  difficult  to  manage  and  in  the 
middle  of  it  all,  if  Mrs.  Sullivan  didn't  go  and  have  another 
baby! 

SUSAN.  [Trying  to  take  out  a  spot  from  his  lapel  with 
her  handkerchief.]  How  terrible  ! 

TOM.  That's  what  I  told  her.  I  said  it  was  bad  enough 
to  have  married  Sullivan,  but  to  bring  a  child  of  his  into  the 
world  was  almost  worse  than  murder! 

SUSAN.  [Always  busying  herself  with  him.]  But,  Tom 
— she  was  longing  for  another  baby! 

TOM.  I  can't  help  that.  However,  now  it's  come,  will 
you  go  round  to-morrow  and  make  a  note  of  how  she's 
doing? 

SUSAN.  [Turning  him  round  and  looking  at  him  criti 
cally.]  Of  course.  Does  she  need  any  baby  clothes  ? 

TOM.    She  had  a  few.    Mrs.  Baxter's  given  her  the  rest. 

SUSAN.  Very  well — I'll  take  charge.  [The  orchestra 
is  heard  below.] 

A  MAN'S  VOICE.     [Coming  upstairs.]     I  say! 

SUSAN.  [Looking  over  the  balustrade.]  Oh,  it's  Mr. 
Livingstone ! 

[Enter  FRED  LIVINGSTONE,  a  dandified  young  man  of  about 

thirty. 

FRED.  [Who  is  carrying  a  plate  in  each  hand.]  There, 
Miss  Van  Tuyl!  You  owe  that  dab  of  mayonnaise  to  no 
less  a  person  than  the  Golden  Nightingale!  [To  TOM.] 
Hello,  Tom — how  goes  it? 

SUSAN.    Why,  Mr.  Livingstone? 


ROMANCE  [Act  I 

FRED.  It's  a  fact.  I  never  would  have  got  it  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  her.  Why,  all  the  literary  and  artistic  talent  in 
New  York  was  fighting  like  a  band  of  demons  round  the 
supper-table,  when,  thank  the  Lord !  the  band  struck  up  and 
someone  said  that  Cavallini  had  arrived! 

SUSAN.     [Smiling.]     I  see! 

FRED.  Two  seconds — and  there  wasn't  a  soul  in  the 
dining  room  but  me!  Why,  even  the  caterer's  men  were 
standing  up  on  chairs  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  divinity ! 

SUSAN.    I  really  must  go  down  and  greet  her. 

TOM.    If  you  see  your  uncle,  Susan,  tell  him  where  I  am. 

SUSAN.     Very  well.     [To  FRED.]     Mr.  Livingstone? 

FRED.  Er — will  you  excuse  me,  Miss  Van  Tuyl?  I  want 
to  have  a  word  or  two  with  Tom  here. 

SUSAN.     Of  course.    Au  revoir. 

[She  goes  downstairs. 

FRED.  [Quivering.]  Well!  This  is  the  last  time  I  bring 
my  wife  to  this  house! 

TOM.      [Amazed.]     What—? 

FRED.  Of  all  the  disgraceful  insults  that  I've  ever 
seen — !  Why,  the  man  must  be  out  of  his  head! 

TOM.    Who? 

FRED.     Van  Tuyl. 

TOM.    What  on  earth's  he  done? 

FRED.  [Staring  at  him.]  Done — ?  Good  Lord,  man, 
don't  you  realize  who's  downstairs?  Don't  you  know  who's 
making  a  tour  of  the  rooms  on  his  arm,  as  the  guest  of 
honor?  Don't  you  know  whom  he's  introducing  to  every 
respectable  woman  that's  been  fool  enough  to  come  here 
to-night — 

TOM.     [Interrupting.]     No,  I  don't — who? 

FRED.     [Impressively.]     The  Gavallini! 

TOM.  [Puzzled.]  Oh,  you  mean  that  foreign  opera 
singer?  Well,  what  of  it? 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  235 

FRED.  [Exploding.]  What  of  it?  By  Jove,  that's  a 
cool  one !  I  always  knew  you  were  advanced,  Tom,  but  I'll 
swear  I  never  thought  you'd  go  as  far  as  this ! 

TOM.     What  on  earth — 

FRED.  [Interrupting.']  It's  bad  enough  to  come  and  find 
the  house  all  full  of  dirty  painter  chaps  and  female  novel 
ists  !  It's  vile  enough  to  see  your  wife  rub  elbows  with 
those  garlic-eating,  gutter-born  Italian  Opera  scoundrels — 
well,  I  won't  talk  about  the  others,  they're  old  and  fat  and 
ugly,  and  I  don't  know  anything  against  'em — but  Caval- 
lini — 

TOM.    Well? 

FRED.  I  know  Van  Tuyl's  our  biggest  banker  and  a  lead 
ing  citizen  and  a  pillar  of  the  church — that's  all  right,  but 
when  it  comes  to  asking  all  New  York  to  parties  given  for 
his  mistress — 

TOM.    What — ? 

FRED.     It's  true.     She  is  his  mistress ! 

TOM.     [Controlling  himself  with  difficulty.]     Well? 

FRED.  I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  it  if  he  hadn't  brought 
her  here  to-night !  I  believe  in  letting  a  man's  private  affairs 
strictly  alone,  but  gad!  I  expect  him  in  return  to  show  a 
little  decency! 

TOM.      [Ominously.]     I  see. 

FRED.  And  look  here,  Tom,  so  long  as  you're  his  rector 
and  all  that,  I  think  you  ought  to  speak  to  him  about  it — 
haul  him  over  the  coals  and  haul  him  jolly  hard! 

TOM.  [Holding  himself  in.]  And  this  is  all  you  wanted 
to  say  to  me? 

FRED.     Of  course. 

TOM.    And  you've  quite  finished? 

FRED.     I  suppose  so.    » 

TOM.  [Coming  close  to  him.]  Then  7  have  one  or  two- 
things  to  say  to  you.  And  I'll  just  begin  by  telling  you 


236  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

what  you  are — and  that's  a  miserable,  sneaking,  gossiping 
old  woman — 

FRED.     [Taken  aback.]     Wait— hold  on  ! 

TOM.  [Continuing.]  A  pitiful,  cackling,  empty-headed 
fool  who  hears  a  dirty  story  and  can't  wait  until  he's  passed 
it  on!  Why,  you  apology  for  the  male  sex,  do  you  know 
what  you're  doing?  You're  a  guest  in  a  gentleman's  house 
— you've  eaten  his  food  and  shaken  him  by  the  hand  and 
now  you're  turning  round  and  circulating  filthy  vicious  lies 
behind  his  back — 

FRED.  [Interrupting.]  They're  not  lies!  He's  lived 
with  her  for  years — she  has  a  villa  on  the  Riviera  that  Van 
Tuyl  gave  her — it's  called  Millefleurs — Jack  Morris  saw 
them  there  together — 

TOM.     [Thundering.]     Be  still! 

FRED.  [Angrily,  as  he  gets  behind  the  sofa  and  talks 
over  it.]  I  won't  be  still!  Why,  all  the  fellows  know  what 
Rita  Cavallini  is — except  yourself  and  you're  a  clergyman. 
Ask  Guvvy  Fisk — he  knew  the  French  musician  chap  that 
found  her  singing  under  hotel  windows  years  ago  in  Venice. 
And  Guvvy  knows  just  when  she  kicked  him  out  and  went 
off  with  that  Russian  grand-duke  and  lived  with  him  in 
Petersburg,  until  the  Prince  de  Joinville  set  her  up  in  Paris ! 
Why,  she's  notorious  all  over  Europe — she's  ruined  whole 
families — run  through  fortune  after  fortune — it  was  outside 
her  door  that  that  young  English  poet  shot  himself — the 
Emperor  borrowed  money  from  the  Rothschilds  just  to 
buy  her  diamonds — the  King  of  Naples  gave  her — 

TOM.     [Breaking  in.]     Stop  it,  Livingstone ! 

FRED.  [Going  right  on.]  And  as  for  Van  Tuyl,  well, 
everybody  knows  what  he's  been  like — 

TOM.     Look  out! 

FRED.  Why,  Louis  the  Fourteenth  couldn't  beat  him 
when  it  comes  to — 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  237 

TOM.  [Interrupting  and  making  for  him.]  You  little 
cur  you — 

[Just  here  VAN  TUYL  comes  up  from  down 
stairs.  He  is  a  man  of  about  fifty,  deep- 
voiced  and  strong — a  powerful  person 
ality.  His  manner  is  gentle  and  full  of  a 
wise,  quiet  humor.  He  is  dressed  soberly, 
but  beautifully  and  with  great  care. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Smiling.]  Well,  my  young  friends  !  What's 
the  matter? 

FRED.  [Politely.]  Oh,  nothing!  Tom  and  I  were  argu 
ing — that's  all.  [He  looks  at  his  watch.]  Good  gracious 
— twelve  o'clock!  You  haven't  seen  my  wife,  sir? 

VAN  TUYL.  But  you're  not  going?  Why,  Mme.  Caval- 
lini's  going  to  sing! 

FRED.    Er — I'm  afraid  we  must.     [Offering  his  hand.] 
VAN  TUYL.     [Taking  it.]      Oh,  why? 
FRED.     [Simply.]     I'd  rather  my  wife  heard  Mme.  Caval- 
lini  across  the  footlights — a  touch  of  prejudice,  I  suppose — 
don't  let  it  bother  you — good-night! 

[He  bows,  smiles,  and  goes  downstairs. 
TOM.     [Simply  and  a  little  shyly.]     I'd  have  come  down 
stairs  to  find  you,  sir,  but  I'm  not  dressed — as  you  see — 
and  I  thought  you  mightn't  like  it. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Heartily.]  Nonsense,  my  boy!  Why, 
you've  no  time  to  prink  up  for  our  foolish  parties.  I  think 
you're  very  good  to  come  at  all.  I  don't  remember  if  you're 
interested  in  terra-cottas,  Tom,  but  if  you  are — [He  is  at 
the  mantel,  lifting  one  of  the  vases  lovingly.]  Here's  some 
thing  that  came  in  last  week.  It's  a  lekythos  of  the  time 
of  Pericles.  Look  at  the  exquisite  grace  and  freshness  of 
those  figures !  By  Jove,  they  breathe  a  fragrance  of  eternal 
youth — and  the  hand  that  made  them  has  been  dust  two 
thousand  years ! 


238  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

TOM.     [Hastily."]     Er — very  prety — very  pretty  indeed. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Looking  at  the  vase.]  Two  thousand  years 
— I  wonder  where  we  were  then — eh,  Tom?  [He  puts  back 
the  vase  with  a  sigh.]  But  I  think  you  care  more  for  pic 
tures  than  for  terra-cottas,  don't  you?  Come  and  look  at 
the  new  Millet.  It's  in  my  room  where  I  can  see  it  every 
morning,  just  as  soon  as  I  wake  up.  By  Jove,  he's  a 
wonderful  fellow,  that  Millet — and  some  day  he's  bound  to 
be  recognized,  even  if — 

TOM.  [Firmly.']  Thanks,  sir,  but  if  you  don't  mind  I'd 
rather  stay  here.  I  want  to — to  talk  to  you. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Genially.]     Of  course — just  as  you  say. 

TOM.  [Awkwardly.]  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  begin, 
sir,  as  it's  a  rather  important — and  at  the  same  time  a 
rather — a  rather  delicate  matter,  but — but — [Suddenly.] 
I'm  not  by  any  chance  keeping  you  from  your  guests  ? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Always  smiling.]     Not  at  all. 

TOM.  [Again  awkward.]  But — it's — er — something  that 
I  really  feel  I  ought  to — er — I  mean  to  say  I — er — con 
sider  it  in  the  light  of — an  obligation — to — er — to — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Interrupting.]     Tom. 

TOM.     Yes,  sir? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Putting  his  hand  on  TOM'S  arm.]  It's  about 
Susan,  isn't  it? 

TOM.    Yes,  but— 

VAN  TUYL.  Then  it's  all  right.  My  boy,  I'm  as  glad 
as  I  can  be ! 

TOM.  [Puzzled.]  But  what's  all  right?  I'm  afraid,  sir, 
I  don't  follow  you. 

VAN  TUYL.  Why,  aren't  you  asking  me  if — [He  looks  at 
him  sharply.~\ 

TOM.     I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  it's  advice  I  wish  to  offer  you. 

VAN  TUYL.     Advice — ? 

TOM.     Yes,  I  regret  it,  but  it's  my  duty. 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  239 

VAN  TUYL.  In  that  case,  pray  go  on.  [He  sits.]  Won't 
you  sit  down?  [He  lights  a  cigar.] 

TOM.  No,  thanks.  [Ingenuously.]  Mr.  Van  Tuyl,  I 
suppose  some  people  would  say  that  after  all  you'd  done 
for  St.  Giles  and  me,  it  wasn't  in  my  place  to  suggest 
anything — 

VAN  TUYL.  Nonsense,  Tom.  Do  you  know  you're  get 
ting  to  look  more  like  your  dear  mother  every  day? 

TOM.  No,  am  I?  [Resuming.]  But  after  all,  I  am  your 
Rector  and  I  feel  I've  got  to — to — 

VAN  TUYL.  Quite  right,  my  boy,  I  respect  your  feelings. 
Well? 

TOM.  [Struggling.]  Have  you  ever  thought— I  mean 
—wouldn't  it  be  better  if— that  is  to  say— do  you  think 
you're  wise,  Mr.  Van  Tuyl,  in  opening  your  doors  to  these 
foreign  opera  singers?  [Going  on  quickly.]  Oh,  I  know 
how  broad-minded  you  are  and  how  interested  in  art  and 
music  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it's  splendid !  It's  so 
splendid,  sir,  that  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  anyone  was 
imposing  on  your  liberality. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Calmly.]     Whom  do  you  mean? 
TOM.     This  Madame  Cavallini — isn't  it?     I  know  she's 
very  distinguished,  and  I  quite  understand  your  public  spirit 
in  recognizing  her  genius  by  making  her  the  center  of  one 
of  your  elegant  entertainments.     But  after  all,  sir,  are  you 
quite  sure  she's  the  sort  of  lady — the  kind  of  person — er 
— the  type — [With  a  gesture.] — I  say  the  type — 
VAN  TUYL.     [Mildly.]     It  isn't  Sunday,  Tom. 
TOM.     [Paternally.]     You  know,  sir,  you're  so  generous 
and  high-minded  that  anybody  could  take  you  in — oh,  yes 
they  could !     [With  a  shake  of  the  head.]     And,  personally 
speaking,    I   have   always    found  that   foreigners — particu 
larly  those  belonging  to  the  Latin  races — have  a  distinct 
leaning  towards  immorality. 


240  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

VAN  TUYL.     How  old  are  you,  Tom? 

TOM.      [Lamely.']      Er — twenty-eight. 

VAN  TUYL.  [With  a  wistful  smile.]  I  wish  7  were 
twenty-eight.  Life's  a  simple  thing  when  you're  twenty- 
eight. 

TOM.     [Loftily.]     If  one  has  standards — yes. 

VAN  TUYL.     Standards? 

TOM.     Of  right  and  wrong,  I  mean. 

VAN  TUYL.     Oh,  yes — I  had  those  standards  once. 

TOM.     [Shocked.]     Once,  -sir? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Confidentially.]  And  then  one  day  I  got 
'em  all  mixed  up — and  the  right  seemed  wrong  and  the 
wrong  seemed  right  and  I  just  didn't  know  where  I  was  at. 

TOM.     Oh,  come,  sir! 

VAN  TUYL.  That  was  a  long  time  ago,  my  boy,  but — 
[With  a  chuckle.]  Well,  I'm  dashed  if  I  ever  got  'em 
straight  again! 

TOM.     [Distressed.]     Oh,  sir,  don't  talk  that  way ! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Soberly.]  I've  learnt  a  few  things,  though 
— stray  spars  I've  clung  to  in  all  this  storm  and  ocean — 
just  a  few  stray  spars,  but  somehow  they've  managed  to 
hold  me  up.  One's  how  to  value  people  that  are  good — 
that's  why  you're  Rector  of  St.  Giles,  Tom — and  another's 
how  to  pity  people  that  are — 

TOM.     Bad. 

VAN  TUYL.  No,  not  bad,  my  boy — there  are  no  people 
that  are  bad.  But  there're  some  poor  devils  who  find  it 
harder  to  be  good  than  you — that's  all. 

TOM.      [Hesitatingly.]     And  Madame  Cavallini? 

VAN  TUYL.  If  Madame  Cavallini  weren't  fit  to  meet  my 
friends,  you  never  would  have  seen  her  here  to-night. 
[Slight  pause.] 

TOM.      [Impulsively.]      Oh,  what  a   fool   I've  been !     I 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  241 

might  have  known  there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  what 
that  puppy  said. 

VAN  TUYL.     What  puppy? 

TOM.     A  young  he-gossip,  sir,  who  reeled  off  lies  about 
this  woman.     And  I  was  ass  enough  to  believe  him,  and 
come  to  you  and  talk  like   a — like  a — like  a  confounded 
prig !     I  wonder  you  don't  throw  me  out  of  the  house ! 
VAN  TUYL.     [With  a  twinkle.]     You're  my  Rector,  Tom. 
TOM.     Do  you  think  you  can  forgive  me,  sir? 

[Just  here  the  band  downstairs  begins  a  be 
guiling  Strauss  waltz. 

VAN  TUYL.      [Rising.']      There's  nothing  to  forgive,  my 
boy.    And  now  go  down  and  ask  Susan  for  some  supper. 
TOM.     But  I'm  not  dressed — 

VAN  TUYL.  Oh,  nonsense !  But  if  you'd  rather  go  into 
the  library,  I'll  tell  her  to  bring  it  to  you  there. 

[Meanwhile,  there  is  heard  down  the  stair 
case  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  high  and 
eager,  and  over  and  above  them,  a  woman's 
laughter.     This  comes  nearer  and  nearer. 
TOM.     But  I'm  not — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Clapping  him  on  the  shoulder.]  Don't 
tell  me  you're  not  hungry!  You're  twenty-eight  years  old, 
and  when  a  young  man's  twenty-eight — hello  !  who's  this  ? 

[He  turns  and  glances  at  back,  as  the  sound 

of  the  voices  and  laughter  grows  nearer. 

A  WOMAN'S  VOICE.     [Just  off,  rising  above  the  others.] 

Go  'vay — go  'vay — you  mus*  not  come  vit'  me — no — no — 

you  are  naughty — you  are  de  mos'  'orrible  naughty  men  I 

ever  see —        [She   sweeps   up   with   the  group   of   young 

dandies   who  have   accompanied  her  and 

stands  for  a  moment   at   the   top  of  the 

stairway,    laughing    and    talking,    always 


242  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

•facing  in  the  direction  whence  she  came, 
away  from  TOM  and  VAN  TUYL.  She  is  a 
bewitching,  brilliant  little  foreign  creature 
— beautiful  in  a  dark,  Italian  way.  She 
is  marvellously  dressed  in  voluminous 
gauze  and  her  dress  is  trimmed  with  tiny 
roses.  Her  black  hair  hangs  in  curls  on 
either  side  of  her  face  and  three  long  soft 
curls  hang  down  her  low-cut  back.  On 
her  head  is  a  wreath  of  little  roses.  She 
wears  long  diamond  earrings,  a  riviere  of 
diamonds  is  about  her  neck,  diamonds 
gleam  on  her  corsage,  her  wrists  and 
hands.  She  carries  a  fan  and  bouquet  in 
a  silver  filigree  holder.  She  speaks  in  a 
soft  Italian  voice,  with  quick  bird-like  ges 
tures.  She  seems  herself  a  good  deal  like 
I  an  exquisite,  gleaming,  little  humming 
bird. 

ONE  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN.     But  it's  my  waltz ! 
ANOTHER.     Don't  listen  to  him,  madame,  you  know  you 
promised  me  to — 

A  THIRD.  [Interrupting.']  Nonsense,  Willie — my  name's 
on  her  card ! 

THE  FJRST.  It's  no  such  thing! 
THE  SECOND.  I  appeal  to  her ! 
THE  THIRD.  Madame — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Oh — !  Vhy  you  make  such  a 
beeg,  beeg  noise? 

THE  FIRST  YOUNG  MAN.  [Frankly.]  You're  driving 
us  crazy — can't  you  understand? 

RITA.  [Mock  serious.]  Vhat?  Me — ?  Poor,  leetle  me  ? 
You  beeg  bad  boy,  you  make  of  me — 'ow  you  say? — vone 
seelly  joke! 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  243 

THE  CHORUS.  "  We  don't !  "  "  It's  true !  "  "  Of  course 
it  is !  " 

RITA.  [Laughing.]  Go  make  de  love  to  dose  bee-eauti- 
ful  Amer'can  ladies  vit'  de  long  nose  an*  de  neck  full  of 
leetle  bones — ! 

ONE  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN.  But  I  want  to  make  love  to 
you! 

ANOTHER.     And  so  do  I ! 
A  THIRD.    I  do,  too ! 
THE  OTHERS.     And  I— and  I ! 

RITA.    Ouf !  You  cannot  all  make  de  love  to  me — so  look ! 
I  tell  you — [They  all  gather  nearer.] 
ONE  OF  THEM.     What? 
ANOTHER.     Tell  us! 

RITA.  [Triumphantly.]  You  shall  not  any  of  you  make 
de  love  to  me! 

CHORUS.  [Disappointed.]  "  Oh,  madame !  "  "  Please !  " 
"  You  must !  "  etc. 

RITA.     No — no!     I  stay  'ere  vit'  Meestaire  Van  Tuyl — 
CHORUS.     "  Oh,  don't !  "     "  What  a  shame !  "     "  Please 
come  downstairs !  "  etc. 

RITA.  But  leesten  now !  Vhich  vone  of  you,  'e  catch  dis 
peenk  camellia — look! — 'e  drive  me  'ome! 

[She  holds  up  the  flower. 

THE  MEN.  [Surging  forward  to  snatch  it.]  "  Give  me 
it !  "  "  Oh,  madame !  "  "  Get  out  the  way !  "  "  It's  mine !  " 
RITA.  [Laughing  and  tossing  it  over  the  balustrade.]  It 
is  all  gone — so  run — run  qvick — qvick!  Oh,  'e  has  fallen 
himself  down — dat  leetle  meestaire !  Povrino !  [Excitedly, 
looking  over  balustrade.]  Oh — !  Oh — !  You  will  be 
'urted—  [Pointing.]  0  Dio!  Guardi—guardi!  [Clapping 
her  hands  and  leaning  over  the  balustrade.]  All  right — 
all  right — you  meestaire  vit'  de  beeg  moustache — Bene! 
— capito!  You  take  me  'ome !  [She  kisses  her  hand  and 


244  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

turns  away,  still  laughing.']     Dey  are  so  frightfully  funny, 
dose —  [She  suddenly  sees  TOM,  who  has  been  stand 

ing  quite  still,  staring  at  her  all  the  time. 
She  stops.  The  words  die  away  from  her 
lips.  She  looks  at  him.  An  instant's 
pause. 

TOM.  [Indistinctly,  as  he  tears  his  gaze  away  from  her.] 
I — I  beg  your  pardon. 

[He  passes  her  quickly,  his  head  bent,  and 
goes  out.  She  turns  and  follows  him  with 
her  eyes. 

RITA.  [Fery  simply,  still  looking  after  him.]  Please 
who  is  dat  young  man? 

VAN  TUYL.    Tom  Armstrong.    He's  a  clergyman. 
RITA.     [Vaguely, ]     Cler-gee-man  ? 
VAN  TUYL.     Abbe — priest,  you  know. 
RITA.     [Almost  to  herself.]     Ah — !     Den  it  vas  dat — 
VAN  TUYL.     What? 

RITA.  [Turning  away.]  I  dunno.  Jus'  somet'ing  in  'is 
eyes— 

VAN  TUYL.  I  don't  suppose  he'd  ever  seen  anything 
like  you  in  all  his  life. 

RITA.  No?  My  Lord,  'ow  ver'  sad!  [Glancing  again 
downstairs — this  time  with  a  certain  impishness.]  An'  he 
vas  'an'some,  too ! 

[VAN  TUYL  chuckles.     She  hears  him,  turns, 
catches  his  eye  and  they  laugh  together. 
VAN  TUYL.     [Coming  up,  still  laughing,  and  taking  her 
in  his  arms.]     You  little  monkey  you! 

RITA.  [Softly,  her  eyes  closed,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  her 
lips.]  De  beeg  Amer'can,  'e  like  'is  leetle  frien'  to-night — 


yes 


VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     I  don't  think  he  could  help  it  if 
he  tried. 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  245 

RITA.    Den  if  'e  like  'er — [She  pauses.'] 

VAN  TUYL.    Well? 

RITA.     [Softly.]     Please  vhy  don'  'e  keess  'er? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Laughing  and  kissing  her.]     There! 

RITA.  [  Drawing  herself  away  suddenly.]  My  Lord, 
I  'ave  forget  somet'ing! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Following  her.]     Come  here! 

RITA.     I  'ave  forget  dat  I  am  oh!  mos'  frightfully  angry! 

VAN  TUYL.     Not  with  me? 

RITA.    Si— si! 

VAN  TUYL.     But  why?     What  have  I  done? 

RITA.      [Briefly.]     You  know. 

VAN  TUYL.     My  dear,  I  don't! 

RITA.  [Sitting  right.]  Ssh !  You  mus'  not  say  t'ings 
like  dat — dey  are  not  true !  You  'ave  treat  me  ver' 
bad  to-night — yes,  you  'ave  treat  me  qvite,  qvite — on-spik- 
able ! 

"VAN  TUYL.  Why,  I've  invited  you  to  my  house !  I've 
introduced  you  to  my  friends — the  most  distinguished  people 
in  New  York!  I've  entertained  you  before  all  the  world — 
and  isn't  that  exactly  what  you  wanted? 

RITA.  You  ask  me  to  your  soiree— dat  is  true — but  you 
ask  me  as  artiste  not  as  femme  du  monde. 

VAN  TUYL.     That  isn't  so ! 

RITA.  [Like  a  flash.]  Ah  no?  Den  please  vhy  you  ask 
de  oder  singers  too? 

VAN  TUYL.     Now,  Rita,  listen — 

RITA.  I  vill  not  leesten !  You  t'ink  I  am  a  leetle — vhat 
you  say? — donnacia — une  p'tite  grisette — 

VAN  TUYL.  My  dear,  you  know  I  don't  think  anything 
of  the  sort — 

RITA.  An*  it  is  not  to-night  alone — oh,  no !  It  is  two — 
free  mont's — all  de  time  since  first  I  come  to  your  mos'  ver' 
diza-agree-a-ble country !  [With  a  smile.]  A-ah!  It  vas 


ROMANCE  [Act  I 

not  like  dis  at  Millefleurs !     I  vas  not  dere  a  singer  from 
de  opera!     At  Millefleurs  I  vas  a  qveen! 

VAN  TUYL.  Millefleurs — !  Our  Palace  of  a  Thousand 
Flowers. 

RITA.  [Caressingly."]  Do  you  remember  de  night  I  sing 
to  you  de  Schubert  serenade — vhen  you  valk  up  an'  down 
below  de  vindow — yes?  All  de  roses  in  de  vorld,  dey  blos 
som  in  de  moonlight.  Dere  vas  no  vind.  De  sea  vas  qvite, 
qvite  steel — an*  you  valk  up  an'  down — up  an'  down — an' 
alvays  I  sing  to  you — an'  sing — an'  sing — an'  de  vind  an' 
de  sea  an'  de  beeg  gol'  moon — dey  all  of  dem  leesten  to  me ! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Rousing  himself.]  That  was  Millefleurs. 
The  roses  there  had  brought  me  back  my  youth.  [With  a 
sigh.]  I  came  home,  and  I  lost  it,  dear.  I'll  never  find  it 
again. 

RITA.    Ah,  no — it  vaits  for  you  among  de  flowers ! 

VAN  TUYL.     I'm  afraid — not  any  more. 

RITA.     Vhat  you  mean,  please? 

VAN  TUYL.  I'm  fifty-one  years  old.  [She  instinctively 
draws  away  from  him  a  little.]  That  frightens  you? 

RITA.    Ah,  no,  but — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Gently.]  Don't  deny  it,  dear — I  know 
how — you  must  feel.  [Pause.]  Rita. 

RITA.     Veil? 

VAN  TUYL.  Rita,  suppose  we  finish  our — our  friendship 
— end  it  here  to-night. 

RITA.    To-night — ? 

VAN  TUYL.    Give  me  your  hand.     There!     Now  we  can 
talk! — I'm   fond  of  you,  dear — I   always  shall  be  that — 
but  already   I'm  beginning  to  disappoint  you.     And   I'm 
afraid  I'll  do  it  more  and  more  as  time  goes  on.     [Sligh 
pause.]      Look  at  my  hair!     There  wasn't  any  grey  in  it 
last  year — at  Millefleurs !    But  now — and  next  year  there'l 
l)e  more !    And  I've  begun  to  be  a  little  deaf  and  fall  asleep 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  247 

in  chairs  and  dream  about  to-morrow's  dinner.  My  rheuma 
tism,  too,  came  back  last  week — [She  winces  and  draws 
away  her  hand.]  Don't  blame  me,  dear — I  can't  help  get 
ting  old. 

RITA.  [Nervously.]  Don' — don'  talk  dat  vay ! 
VAN  TUYL.  [Quickly.]  God  knows  I'm  not  complain 
ing!  I've  lived  my  life — and  it's  been  very  sweet.  I've 
done  some  work,  and  done  it  pretty  well,  and  then  I've 
found  time  to  enjoy  a  great  many  of  the  beautiful  things 
that  fill  this  beautiful  world.  [Politely.]  Among  them,  my 
dear,  I  count  your  voice— and  you!  [Resuming.]  And  yet 
the  fact  remains  I've  lived  my  life,  I'm  in  the  twilight  years 
— oh!  they're  golden  yet,\ but  that  won't  last,  and  they'll 
grow  deep  and  dim  until  the  last  tinge  of  the  sunset's  gone 
and  the  stars  are  out  and  'night  comes — and  it's  time  to 
sleep.  [With  a  change  of  ^one.]  But  you— Good  Lord, 
your  life  has  just  begun!  Why,  the  dew's  still  on  the 
grass — it's  sparkling  brighter  than  your  brightest  dia 
monds!  [He  touches  the  ornaments.]  The  birds  are  sing 
ing  madrigals,  the  meadow's  burst  into  a  sea  of  flowers 

you  wear  the  morning  like  a  wreath  upon  your  hair — don't 
lose  all  that,  my  dear, — don't  waste  your  springtime  on  a 
stupid  fellow,  fifty-one  years  old !  [Pause.] 

RITA.     [Coldly.]     All  right. 

[She  turns  away,  whistling. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Watching.]     What's  the  matter? 

RITA.      [Casually.]     Oh,  nodings. 

VAN  TUYL.     Yes,  there  is. 

RITA.  Vone  more — 'ow  you  say? — frien-ship  feen- 
ished — !  [In  a  hard  voice.']  Vone  more — !  [With  a  care 
less  gesture.}  Oh,  che  m'importa — ce  ne  sono  altril 

[She  yawns  ostentatiously  and  sniffs  her  bouquet. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Looking  at  her  keenly.]     Rita? 

RITA.     Veil— Meestaire  Van  Tuyl? 


248  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

VAN  TUYL.     [Simply.]     Haven't  you  ever  loved  someone  ? 

RITA.  'Ow  you  talk?  'Ave  I  not  love  you  two — t'ree 
year? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Always  very  gently.]  I  don't  mean  that. 
Isn't  there  someone  whose  memory  is  dear  and — and  sort 
of  holy — like  an  altar-candle,  burning  in  your  heart? 

RITA.     [In  a  hard  voice.]     No. 

VAN  TUYL.  Think  back- — way  back.  Didn't  someone 
ever  make  you  feel  so  tender  that  you  didn't  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry  at  the  thought  of  him?  Wasn't  there  ever 
someone  you  wanted  to  help  so  much  that  it — it  hurt  you, 
like  living  pain?  Wasn't  there  someone  that  your  heart 
and  soul  just  rushed  out  to  meet — and  all  the  time  you  stood 
before  him  and  looked  down  and — and  couldn't  say  one 
single  little  word  ?  Wasn't  there  someone  who — 

RITA.  [Rising  suddenly.]  Basta!  Basta — /  Stop  it — 
don' — don' — [A  little  pause.  She  recovers  herself.]  'Ave 
you  felt — like  dat? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Nodding.]     Yes. 

RITA.    Who  vas  she? 

VAN  TuVL.  [Simply.]  Just  a  girl.  Not  wonderful  or 
beautiful  pr  gifted — and  yet — well,  somehow  she  meant  the 
world  to  ,tne. 

RITA./  Vhat  'appen? 

VAN  TUYL.  She  died  before  I  ever  told  her  that  I  loved 
her.  [Pause.] 

RITA.  [Not  looking  at  him.]  It  vas  a  good  t'ing — dat 
she  die  so  soon. 

VU  TUYL.     What? 

RITA.  Sometime  I  vish  dat  I  'ad  died  before  I  ever  'ear 
dose  vords — "  I  love  you." 

VAN  TUYL.     What  do  you  mean? 

RITA.  [Ironically.]  I  never  tol'  you  of  my  first  so- 
bee-eautiful  romance?  No — ?  Veil,  I  do  not  often  t'ink 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  249 

of  it — it  make  me  feel — [With  a  curious  little  shiver.] — not 
nize.  [Pause.]  It  vas  in  Venice.  I  vas  jus'  seexteen  years 
ol'.  I  play  de  guitar  wid  de  serenata — you  know,  de  leetle 
company  of  peoples  dat  go  about  an'  sing  under  de  vindows 
of  de  great  'otels — [With  a  sigh.]  Ah  Madonna!  come 
sembra  lontano! 

VAN  TUYI>.     Well? 

RITA.  [Not  looking  at  him.]  A  young  man  come  join 
our  serenata—Beppo,  'is  name  vas — Beppo  Aquilone.  'E 
vas  'an'some  an'  'ad  nize  voice — oh,  ve?'  light,  you  know, 
but  steel — simpatica.  Ve  stan'  together  vhen  ve  sing  an' 
'ave — I  dunno4— vone,  two  duet.  An/  so  it  go  for  two — 
free  veek  an'  e'  say  noding  much,  tyit  every  time  'e  smile 
an'  look  at  me  tny  'eart  is  full  vif/  great  beeg  vishes  an' 
I  feel  like  everything  in  all  de  vorld  is  new  an'  born  again. 
An'  so  vone  evening  'e  come  vit'  me  to  my  leetle  room — 
an'  den  'e  tell  me  dat  'e  love  me— '-an'  all  night  long  'e  'old 
me  close  an'  kees  mewan'  I  feel  'is  'ot  breat'  like  a  fire  upon 
my  face — an'  de  beaming  of  'is  'eart,  it  come  like  strong 
blows  'ere  against  my\  own.  An'  den  'e  sleep.  But  I — I 
do  not  sleep.  I  lie  still  an'  qviet  an'  in  my  mind  I  have 
vone  fought — "  Is  dis  \\hat  people  mean  vhen  dey  say — 
Love?"  An'  so  de  'ours  go  by'  an'  de  night  is  feenish, 
an'  a — a — 'ow  you  say? — a  long,  t'in  piece  of  sunlight,  it 
creep  in  my  leetle  vindow  an'  it  shine  on  Beppo  vhere  'e 
lie  beside  me.  An'  oh !  'e  look  so  young ! — an'  den  de  sun 
light — 'ow  you  say?— it  tease  him,  so  'e  'alf  vake  up,  an' 
e'  vink  'is  eyes  an'  s£y,  "  Ah,  Rita,  ti  amo!  "  An'  den  'e 
sigh  an'  put  'is  'ead  'ere — on  my  shoulder — like  a  leetle 
baby  dat  is  tired,  «tn'  go  to  sleep  again.  [With  passionate 
tenderness.]  An,'/ oh!  I  put  my  arm  about  'im  an'  I  smile 
an'  t'ink  "  For/Love  I  vaited  all  night  long,  an'  vit'  de 
day — it  come!/" 

VAN  TITTL.    And  so  it  does,  my  dear. 


250  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

RITA.  [In  a  different  voice.]  You  t'ink  so?  Vait — ! 
[She  has  turned  away.]  In  tvelve  'our — tvelve  'our — 'e 
sell  me  to  an  English  traveller  for  feefty  lire.  At  first,  I 
t'ink  I  die — I  soffer  so!  An'  den  at  las'  I  on'erstan' — an' 
laugh — an'  know  dat  I  'ave  been  vone  great  beeg  fool — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Protesting]     My  dear,  I — 

RITA.  [Shaking  her  clenched  hands]  A  fool  to  t'ink 
dere  vas  some  greater,  better  love — a  love  dat  come  at 
morning  an'  shine  like  sunshine — [With  a  wide  gesture]  — 
yes,  all  t'rough  de  day! 

VAN  TUYL.     There  is. 

RITA.  [Fiercely]  Dat  is  vone  lie!  You  'ear — ?  vone 
lie!  [Voluptuously]  Love — it  is  made  of  keeses  in  de 
dark,  of  'ot  breat'  on  de  face  an'  'eart  beats  jus'  like  terrible 
strong  blows!  It  is  a  struggle — ver'  cruel  an'  sveet — all 
full  of  madness  an'  of  vhispered  vords  an'  leetle  laughs  dat 
turn  into  a  sigh !  Love  is  de  'unger  for  anoder's  flesh — a 
deep  down  t'irst  to  dreenk  anoder's  blood —  Love  is  a 
beast  dat  feed  all  t'rough  de  night  an'  vhen  de  morning 
come — Love  dies!  [Slight  pause] 

VAN  TUYL.  My  dear,  I  think  you  must  have  suffered  a 
great  deal. 

RITA.  Yes — because  I  'ave  believe  vonce  in  a  lie,  but — 
[Shaking  her  fnger] — not  any  more!  [With  a  grimace] 
Oh,  vhy  ve  talk  about  dose  bad  ol  t'ings  ? — see  'ere — I  blow 
dem  far  avay!  Pst — !  Pouf — !  [With  an  enchanting 
smile]  Now  look!  Dey  are  all  gone!  [As  he  does  not 
answer,  but  looks  at  her.]  Veil?  Vhat  you  t'ink  about  so 
'ard — yes  ? 

VAN  TUYL.    Why  don't  you  marry  someone,  Rita? 

RITA.     Marry — me — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     Well,  why  not? 

RITA.    Vhere  vould  I  fin'  a  man  to  make  of  me  'is  wife? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Protesting]     Nonsense,  dear,  why — 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  251 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  My  frien',  you  'ave  forget  a 
leetle —  vhat  I  am.  [Brief  pause.] 

VAN  TUYL.     I'm  sorry,  dear. 

RITA.  [Quickly.]  Sorry — ?  Bah!  Do  you  t'ink  I 
care  ?  I — who  'ave  'ad  de  great  men  of  de  vorld  among  my 
lovers?  Ah,  no,  my  frien',  I  'ave  not  come  to  dat! 

VAN  TUYL.     I  understand. 

RITA.  [Turning  and  looking  at  him.]  De  great  men  of 
de  vorld !  An'  you  are  vone  of  dem — oh,  yes,  I  know  it 
vhen  I  see  you  first  at  dat  beeg  supper  Rossini  give  for  me. 
An*  I  ask  'im — I  say  "  Maestro,  who  is  dat  man  who  sect 
next  de  Russian  princess?  "  An*  'e  laugh  an'  say,  "  Vhat? 
Not  already  you  make  up  your  min'  ?  "  an'  den  I  see  you 
look  at  me — 

VAN  TUYL.     Of  course! 

RITA.  An'  I  smile — oh,  mos'  sveet! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Rising.]     You  little  rascal  you! 

RITA.  An'  so — ve  'ave  begin.  [She  considers  him.] 
Come  'ere!  [He  comes  close  to  her.  She  takes  him  by  the 
lapel  and  looks  up  at  him.]  You  know  vhat  I  t'ink — yes? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     I  never  know. 

RITA.     I  t'ink — ve  'ave  not  come  qvite  to  de  en'. 

VAN  TUYL.     My  dear,  you  make  me  very  happy. 

RITA.  So  you  vill  drive  vit'  me  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
four? 

VAN  TUYL.     I'm  honored. 

RITA.     I  tell  you  somet'ing — 

VAN  TUYL.    Well? 

RITA.  You  are  naughty — but  I  like  you  frightfully 
much ! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  Madame,  I'm  more 
than  grateful.  [The  orchestra  begins  a  waltz  downstairs.] 
Good  Heavens,  I've  forgotten  I'm  a  host!  What  will  those 
wretched  people  think!  My  arm — ?  [He  offers  it  to  her.] 


252  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

RITA.     [Like  an  unwilling  child.]     Vhen  mus'  I  sing? 

VAN  TUYL.  Let's  see.  I've  asked  Artot  and  Capoul  for 
the  duet  from  Traviata — and  then  I  want  the  sextette  from 
Lucia — and  after  that  we'll  all  be  ready  for  the  Golden 
Nightingale ! 

RITA.  [Lying  on  the  sofa.]  De  Golden  Nightingale 
vill  rest  alone  'ere  till  de  time  is  come.  An*  oh !  sen  someone 
vit'  'er  red  vine  an'  'er  lemon-juice!  She  is  so  tired — she 
cannot  sing  vit'out! 

VAN  TUYL.     That's  all? 

RITA.     Dat's  all. 

VAN  TUYL.     You're  beautiful  to-night. 

RITA.  [Lying  back  and  looking  up  at  him.]  Vhy  not? 
My  star  is  Venus — I  vas  born  for  love! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Tenderly.]  "O  love  forever  in  thy  glory 
go!  "  [The  sound  of  the  waits  is  heard  full  of  in 

sistent  rhythm.  With  a  sigh,  she  flings 
her  arms  above  her  head,  stretches  her 
body,  and  closes  her  eyes.  Then,  with  a 
burst  of  chatter  and  laughter,  three  young 
couples  rush  up  the  stairs.] 

THE  FIRST  YOUNG  MAN.     [To  his  partner.]     Come  on! 

THE  GIRL.    Oh,  what  fun !    We'll  have  it  all  to  ourselves  ! 

THE  FIRST  YOUNG  MAN.  Quick!  Before  the  others  see 
us — [They  begin  to  dance.] 

ANOTHER  GIRL.     I'm  dying  to  learn  the  Boston  Dip! 

HER  PARTNER.  It's  perfectly  easy — [Dancing.]  One 
— two — down!  One — two — down! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Turning  from  the  couch.]  Ssh!  Madame 
Cavallini's  trying  to  rest  a  little  before  she  sings !  [He 
smiles  at  the  young  people  and  puts  his  finger  to  his  lips.] 

ONE  OF  THE  GIRLS.     Oh,  of  course,  sir. 

ANOTHER  GIRL.    We  never  noticed. 

[VAN  TUYL  goes  downstairs. 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  253 

THE  THIRD  GIRL.     [Whispering.]     She's  asleep ! 

[They  all  gaze  towards  the  couch. 

ONE  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN.  [Rapturously.]  I  say!  Isn't 
she  a  vision ! 

His  PARTNER.     Ssh !     You'll  wake  her  up ! 

THE  SECOND  YOUNG  MAN.  Let's  go  down  to  the  con 
servatory. 

.THE  THIRD  YOUNG  MAN.     Tip-toe,  you  girls ! 

[They  begin  to  descend  again. 

TOM.  [Entering  from  the  library.]  Mr.  Van  Tuyl,  I— 
[He  stops  on  seeing  the  departing  young  people.]  Oh, 
it's  you,  my  young  friends ! 

ONE  OF  THE  GIRLS.  [Whispering  to  him  over  her  shoul 
der  as  she  disappears.]  Mr.  Van  Tuyl's  just  gone  downstairs. 

TOM.     [About  to  follow  her.]     Thank  you. 

RITA.  [Suddenly  opening  her  eyes  and  speaking,  from 
her  couch.]  You  are  going? 

TOM.     [Turning.]     I  beg  your  pardon? 

RITA.      [Smiling.]     Don't  go — please — 

TOM.     [Stuttering.]     But  I— I— I— 

RITA.  I  vas  jus'  begun  to  be  a  leetle — 'ow  you  say? — 
lonely?  An'  now  a  nize  young  man  come — oh,  my  Lord, 
I  am  so  glad !  [She  smiles  at  him  bewitchingly.] 

TOM.     You're  sure  I'm  not — intruding? 

RITA.  But  no!  Come  in  an* — 'ow  you  say? — oh  yes! 
make  yourself  qvite  to  'ome! 

TOM.     Er — thank  you. 

[He  sits  down  on  other  side  of  room. 

RITA.    Vhy  you  sit  vay,  vay  over  dere? 

TOM.    Why — er — er — I  don't  know — I — 

RITA.  [Sweetly.]  Are  you  afraid  of  me?  [As  one 
would  talk  to  a  young  and  timid  baby.]  I  vill  not  'urt  you — 
no,  I  like  de  young  men !  Please  come !  Sit  'ere ! 

[She  indicates  a  chair  at  foot  of  couch. 


254,  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

TOM.     You're — very  kind. 

[He  comes  over  and  sits  down. 

RITA.  [Lying  back  with  a  sigh.']  A-ah!  [She  smiles  at 
him.  A  pause.  Then,  curiously.}  Vhat  make  your  face  so 
red? 

TOM.     [In  consternation.']     My  face — 

RITA.  [Dreamily.}  It  is  de  reddes'  t'ing  I  ever  see  in 
all  my  life ! 

TOM.     [Agonized.]     It's  rather — warm  in  here. 

RITA.     You  t'ink  so  ?     7  am  qvite,  qvite  col'. 

TOM.  That's — very  odd.  [Pause.]  I'm  afraid  I — I 
haven't  had  the  honor  of  being — presented — er — my  name's 
Armstrong. 

RITA.  Ar-rm-str-rong !  But  dat  is  not  all — eh?  Now 
vait — no — yes — ecco!  I  'have  it — Teem! 

TOM.  [Slightly  nettled.]  No,  not  Tim.  That's  Irish. 
Tom. 

RITA.     Tome ! 

TOM.    Not  Tome.     Tom! 

RITA.  Tom — !  Dat  right — ?  [Repeating  it  to  herself '.] 
Tom — Tom  !  [Laughing.]  My  Lord — vhat  a  funny  name ! 

TOM.     It's  not  a  real  name.     It's  just  short  for  Thomas. 

RITA.  [Illuminated.]  Ah — Tomasso !  Si  si!  Now  I 
on'erstan' !  I  vonce  'ave  a  frien'  name'  Tomasso — oh,  yes, 
ver'  long  ago!  'E  'ave  jus'  vone  leg.  'T  vas — 'ow  you  say? 
— rag-picker ! 

TOM.    Was  he? 

RITA.  [Critically.]  You  look  mos'  ver'  much  like 
'im! 

TOM.     [Pulling  uncomfortably  at  his  coat.]     Do  I? 

RITA.  [With  a  sudden  happy  thought.]  Mebbe  you  are 
fine,  beeg  Amer'can  rag-picker — no? 

TOM.  [Severely.]  Madam,  I  am  the  Rector  of  St.  Giles' 
Church! 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  255 

RITA.     R-r-rector  ? 

TOM.  Yes — I  mean  I — I  own  it — I'm  its  minister — its 
clergyman — 

RITA.  [Quickly.']  Oh,  cler-gee-man!  I  'ave  forget! 
'Ow  bee-eautiful!'  An'  Saint  Gile' — who  vas  'e?  Some 
leetle  Amer'can  saint — hein? 

^FoM.  [Sternly.]  St.  Giles  is  one  of  the  mpst  important 
figures  in  the  great  history  of  the  Church  of  England ! 

RITA.  [Softly.]  Is  dat  so?  Anodder  cler-gee-man — 
yes?  [He  nods.]  'Ow  frightfully  nize!  Ve  never  'ear  of 
'im  in  Italy. 

TOM.  [Struck.]  In  Italy—!  Why,  you  don't  live  in 
Italy. 

RITA.  I  'ave  a  house  in  Florence  an*  a  villa  on  de  Lago 
di  Como — yes. 

TOM.  [With  a  relieved  laugh.]  Oh,  that's  all  right, 
then.  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  for  just  a  moment? 

RITA.     No.     Vhat  you  t'ink? 

TOM.  I  thought  that  you  were  one  of  these  Italian  opera 
singers ! 

RITA.     [Laughing.]     You  funny  man! 

TOM.     Forgive  me — do ! 

RITA.     It  vill  be  'ard ! 

TOM.  You  see,  there're  lots  of  them  downstairs, — but 
then,  I  ought  to  have  known,  because  Fred  Livingstone  said 
they  were  all  old  and  fat  and  ugly. 

RITA.     [Dampened.]     Oh—!     Did  'e? 

TOM.  With  one  exception — Madame  Cavarini — or  lini 
— or  whatever  her  name  is.  You  know. 

RITA.  [Smiling.]  Yes — I  know.  An'  you — vhat  you 
t'ink?  You  fin'  'er  bee-eautiful? 

TOM.  I — ?  Oh,  7  haven't  seen  her.  /  don't  go  to  the 
opera. 

RITA.     [Confidentially.]     You  'ave  not  miss  much  vhen 


256  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

you  miss  La  Cavallini.  She  is  of  a  fatness — [With  a  ges 
ture.}  Oh,  like  dat! 

TOM.    You're  sure? 

RITA.  [Nodding.]  She  eat  tvelve  poun'  of  spaghetti 
every  day! 

TOM.    No! 

RITA.  [Enthusiastically.]  An'  ugly — oh,  Madonna! — 
'ow  dat  vomans  is  ugly !  Jus'  to  look  at  'er  give  vone  de 
nose-bleed ! 

TOM.     But  everybody  says — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Leesten !  Vone  eye  is  made  of 
glass — an'  'er  nose — my  Lord,  'er  nose ! 

TOM.     What's  the  matter  with  her  nose? 

RITA.  [Covering  her  face  with  her  hands.]  She  'as  not 
got  vone — ! ! 

TOM.     But  surely  you're  mistaken — why — 

RITA.  [Shuddering.]  Jus'  papier-mache — stuck  to  'er 
face!  0  Dio! 

TOM.  Well,  I  suppose  her  figure  is  what  makes  them 
say — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  I  tell  you  somet'ing  terrible ! 
She  'as  a  'ump ! 

TOM.    A  what? 

RITA.  [With  horrid  emphasis.]  A  'ump — a  'ump  upon 
'er  back! 

TOM.     You  mean  a  hump? 

RITA.  [Nodding.]  'Er  dressmaker  in  Paris — she  tell 
me  dat.  Now  vhat  you  t'ink — eh? 

TOM.     [Rising.]     Do  you  really  want  to  know? 

RITA.    Yes — tell  me,  please ! 

TOM.  [Very  sternly.]  I  think,  madam,  you  have  been 
guilty  of  the  grossest  cruelty ! 

RITA.     Vhat—? 

TOM.     [Oracularly.']     Yes — cruelty,  I  repeat  the  word! 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  257 

To  hear  a  woman,  on  whom  an  all-wise  Providence  has 
showered  its  choicest  gifts  of  health  and  wealth  and  beauty 
— I  say  to  hear  a  woman  like  yourself  deride,  hold  up  to 
scorn  and  gloat  over  the  physical  failings  of  a  less  fortu 
nate  sister — for,  madam,  you  are  sisters  in  the  sight  of 
God! — I  say  this  heartless  act  deserves  a  far  more  serious 
rebuke  than  any  I'm  at — at  liberty  to  offer. 

RITA.  [Suddenly  covering  her  face  with  her  pocket 
handkerchief  and  gasping.]  Ah — don' — don' — 

TOM.  What  if  this  unhappy  lady  does  suffer  from — 
exaggerated  fleshiness?  Beneath  that  bulk  may  beat  the 
tenderest  of  female  hearts !  What  if  her  face  is  repulsive 
even  to  the  degree  that  you  mention  ?  The  purest  thoughts 
may  animate  the  brain  behind !  What  if  one  eye  is  glass  ? 
The  other,  doubtless,  is  the  window  of  a  noble  soul !  And 
even  though  she  bears  a  hump  upon  her  back,  she  may, 
with  Christian  patience,  change  it  to  a — [Suddenly  in 
spired.] — a  cross! 

RITA.  [Her  voice  still  covered,  shaking.]  Don' — don' — ! 
Dio  mio — /  I  cannot  bear  it — 

TOM.  [Professionally.]  I  am  glad  my  few,  poor  simple 
words  have  touched  you.  Never  forget  them — let  them  be 
with  you  always — and,  should  the  temptation  come  again, 
remember  that  a  soft,  sweet  tongue  is  Woman's  Brightest 
Ornament ! 

RITA.  [  Unable  to  control  herself.]  Tschk— !  Tschk— ! 
Tschk— !  [She  presses  the  handkerchief  over  her  mouth.] 

TOM.     [Suddenly,  taking  a  step  toward  her.]     Madam — / 

RITA.  [Dropping  the  handkerchief  and  screaming  with 
laughter.]  I  cannot  'elp  it — oh — !  oh — !  oh — / 

TOM.  [Grinding  his  teeth  and  striking  one  palm  against 
the  other  as  he  turns  away.]  Madam — !  You — a-ah  ! 

RITA.  [Exhausted,  gasping.]  Oh — !  oh — !  [Wiping 
her  eyes.]  My  Lord — ! 


258  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

[A    servant  comes  from   downstairs   carrying   a  tray   with 
glasses,  a  carafe,  and  a  decanter  of  wine. 

THE  SERVANT.     The  wine,  madam. 
RITA.     P-put  it  'ere — on  dis  leetle  table. 

[She  indicates  the  little  table  by  the  head  of 
the  couch.  The  servant  places  the  tray 
upon  it. 

THE  SERVANT.     Is  that  all  you  will  require,  madam? 
RITA.     Yes — dat  is  all. 

[The  servant  goes  downstairs. 
TOM.     [Stiffly.]     Good-night. 
RITA.     You  are  not  going? 

TOM.  After  what,  has  occurred,  I  see  no  reason  for  stay 
ing. 

RITA.     [Carelessly."]     All  right. 

[She  half-rises  and  occupies  herself  with  an 
elaborate  mixing  of  the  wine  and  lemon- 
juice  and  water. 

TOM.  [Lingering.]  Aren't  you  sorry  for  making  fun 
of  me? 

RITA.  [Always  intent  on  the  drink.]  Oh,  frightfully 
sorry ! 

TOM.     [Doubtfully.]     You  don't  look  it. 
RITA.     [As  before.]     Is  dat  so?     Good-bye. 

[ToM  walks  to  stairs,  pauses,  hesitates — then 
slowly  comes  back  and  sits  down  in  his  old 
chair. 

TOM.     Madam — 

RITA.  [Turning  to  glance  at  him.]  Oh!  I  fought  you 
go! 

TOM.  [With  dignity.]  So  long  as  you're  sincerely  sorry 
— so  long  as  you  truly  repent — [He  pauses  expectantly, 
awaiting  her  corroboration.  But  she  whistles  gaily  and  pays 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  259 

no  attention  to  him.     He  finishes   somewhat   lamely:]      I 
don't  suppose  there's  any  need  of  my  going. 

RITA.     [Lightly.]     No?    My  Lord,,  I  am  dead  vit' joy ! 
TOM.     [Sternly.]     Madam— 

RITA.  [Gaily,  as  she  pours  the  drink  from  one  glass  to 
another.]  Look — !  See  W  bee-eautiful  I  do  it — !  [Her 
voice  softening.]  Somevone  who  vas  vonce  ver'  fon'  of  me, 
'e  teach  me  dis !  [He  stares,  hypnotized.  She  finishes  and 
fills  both  glasses.]  Dere !  [She  holds  one  out  to  him.] 
Dat  is  for  you ! 

TOM.  [Rousing  himself.]  Thanks.  I — don't  take 
stimulants. 

RITA.  [Very  softly.]  Not  even  vhen  /  give  dem — ? 
[A  pause.  She  holds  out  the  glass  and  smiles.  At  last  he 
takes  it.]  Ah,  dat  is  right!  [She  lifts  her  own  glass.] 
Now  vhat  ve  dreenk  to — eh?  [Suddenly.]  Ecco!  Dat 
nice  ol*  cler-gee-man — Saint  Gile' !  You  don't  like  dat — no  ? 
[She  pauses  and  considers,  gazing  at  him.  At  last,  in  a 
slow,  mysterious  whisper:]  Den  'ow  you  like  it  if  7  dreenk 
to  vhat  I  see  in  your  eyes — an'  you  dreenk  to  vat  you  see 
in  mine — ? 

[A  pause.  She  stares  at  him  steadily  with  a 
mysterious  smile.  He  cannot  take  his  eyes 
away.  Together  they  slowly  lift  their 
glasses  to  their  lips  and  drink,  their  gaze 
never  faltering.  From  downstairs  can  be 
heard  very  faintly  the  voices  of  the  other 
singers,  singing  the  sextette  from 
"  Lucia,"  with  the  orchestra  accompani 
ment. 

TOM.  [Oddly.]  Who  are  you?  Tell  me— 1-— don't 
understand — 

RITA.  [Slowly  and  mysteriously.]  I  am  a  cup  all  full  of 
sacred  vine !  I  stan'  upon  an  altar  built  of  gol'  an'  pearls 


260  ROMANCE  [Act  I 

an'  paid  for  vit'  de  blood  an'  tears  of  men!  De  steam  of 
perfume  dat  fills  all  de  air,  it  is  de  t'oughts  of  me  in  poets' 
'earts — de  vhite  flowers  lying  at  my  feet,  dey  are  de  young 
boys'  bee-eautif  ul  deep  dreams !  My  doors  are  open  vide 
to  all  de  vorld !  I  shine  in  dis  great  darkness  like  a  living 
star,  an'  somevhere — sometime  every  man  'as  'card  my 
voice — "  Come,  all  you  t'irsty  vones — come,  dere  is  vine  for 
all !  "  [Pause.] 

TOM.     What's  your  name? 

RITA.     Ah,  vhy  you  ask? 

TOM.  [Always  looking  at  her.]  Because  I  want  to  see 
you  again — and  again — I  want  to  ask  you  a  million  things 
I  never  dreamed  about  until  to-night — [His  voice  rising.] 
I  want  to  know  you  right  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  your 
soul — I  want  to — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Ah,  poor  young  man — all  dat 
can  never  be. 

TOM.     It  will— 

RITA.     No — no  ! 

TOM.     [Rising.]     It  must — it's  got  to  be ! 

RITA.  [Gently.]  Ssh — !  Don' make  a  noise !  [Impul 
sively.]  Come  'ere!  [He  comes  up  to  the  side  of  couch.] 
Kneel  down — [As  he  does  so.]  Dere — like  dat!  Close — 
close  so  ve  can  talk.  [Picking  up  her  bouquet.]  You  see 
my  violets  'ere — so  sveet  an'  fresh  an'  bee-eautif  ul  ?  You 
see  dem?  Veil,  'ow  long  you  t'ink  dey  las'? 

TOM.     A  long  time,  if  you  treat  them  well. 

RITA.  Now  look — !  [She  pulls  the  flowers  in  handfuls 
from  the  bouquet.]  I  press  dem  on  my  face  an'  neck — I  feel 
dere  freshness  on  my  eyes  an'  'air — I  dreenk  dere  sveetness 
like  I  dreenk  new  vine — 

TOM.     [Warningly.]     You're  crushing  them ! 

RITA.  Vhat  does  it  matter?  I  have  kees  dem — an'  dey 
vere  born  to  die!  [Taking  up  two  great  handfuls  and 


Act  I]  ROMANCE  261 

covering  his  face  with  them.]  Dere — !  Take  long  bret's 
of  dere  fragrance!  Let  dem  cool  your  lips  an'  fall  like 
vhite  snow  on  your  face !  Don't  t'ink  sad  t'oughts  of  vhat 
mus'  be — jus'  laugh  an'  love  dem — dat  is  all  dey  need! 
[Giving  him  more.]  Take  dese — an'  dese — take  more — 
oh,  take  dem  all — !  [She  throws  a  last  handful  into  the 
air.  The  flowers  fall  all  about  them.]  Dere — !  [Showing 
the  bouquet  holder.]  It  is  empty.  Not  vone  is  left  to  take 
'ome  vhen  I  go.  You  on'erstan'? 

TOM.     I  don't  know — 

RITA.  [Tenderly.]  Our  meeting  'ere  to-night — vhat  is  it 
but  a  bunch  of  violets  ?  Of  flowers  dat  ve  smell  an'  love  an' 
t'row  into  de  air?  Vhy  should  ve  take  dem  'ome  vit'  us 
an'  vatch  dem  die  ?  I  t'ink  it  is  oh !  much  more  vise  to 
leave  dem  'ere — like  leetle  memories — all  sveet  an'  vhite 
an'  scattered  on  de  groun'. 

TOM.     Couldn't  I  keep — just  one  or  two? 

RITA.  [Smiling.]  Dey  vere  not  meant  for  keeping. 
Dere  whole  life  vas  to-night! 

TOM.  [Simply.]  I  know — but  I'd  like  to  try.  [A  little 
pause.  She  looks  at  him  and  shakes  her  head.] 

RITA.  Ah,  you  are  so  young!  [She  picks  up  a  few 
flowers  from  where  they  have  fallen  and  puts  them  in  his 
buttonhole  as  he  kneels  beside  her.]  Dere!  [Then,  with 
her  fngers  still  at  his  buttonhole.]  I  vish — [She  hesitates.] 

TOM.     What  do  you  wish? 

RITA.  [Very  simply,  almost  like  a  child.]  I  vish  I  knew 
some  flowers  dat  vould  never  die. 

[There  is  an  instant's  pause ,  then,  quite  sud 
denly,  he  seizes  her  hands  and  kisses  them 
again  and  again. 

RITA.      [Trying   to   rise.]      No — stop — vhat  you   do — r 

[She  manages  to  tear  herself  away  from  him 

just  as  VAN  TUYL  appears  on  the  stairs. 


ROMANCE  [Act  I 

He  pauses  at  the  top  and  looks  at  them. 
A  brief  pause. 

RITA.      [With  complete   self-command.]      Ah,   'ow  nize 
you  are  to  come! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Politely.]     You're  ready,  madame? 
RITA.      Gvite,    qvite    ready.      [To    TOM.]      T'ank   you, 
:m'sieur,  for  your  kin'  politeness.     Good-bye. 

[She   bows  to  him  and  picks  up  her  scarf, 
gloves,  and  fan,  preparatory  to  departure. 
TOM.     [Hoarsely.]     But  I  want  to  see  you  again. 
RITA.     You  are — sure? 
TOM.     [Gulping.]     Yes— 
RITA.    Gvite  sure  ? 
TOM.     [As  before.]     Yes— 

RITA.      [Very   ff  femme   du   monde  ".]      Den   vould  you 
come  to  my  'otel  to-morrow  afternoon  at  four?     It  is  de 
Brevoort  'Ouse — [Pointing.]     Jus'  over  dere,  you  know. 
TOM.     [With  difficulty.]     All  right— 
RITA.     [Smiling.]     An'  I  vill  take  you  for  a  leetle  drive 
upon  your  bee-eautiful  Fift'  Avenue! 

VAN   TUYL.      [Always  very  polite.]      And  our  engage 
ment,  madame — what  becomes  of  that? 

RITA.     Our  leetle  engagement  is — is — 'ow  you  say? 

VAN  TUYL.     Postponed? 

RITA.     [Finishing.]     In-definite-lee. 

[VAN  TUYL  bows.    She  moves  towards  the  stairs. 

TOM.     [Who  has  never  taken  his  eyes  from  her  now  steps 

forward  as  he  sees  her  leaving.]      Wait — !     I'm  awfully 

sorry,  but  I — you  know  you  haven't  told  me  what  your  name 

3s— 

RITA.     Oh,  of  course — I  'ave  forget — so  stupid!     Vill 
you  tell  'im — Meestaire  Van  Tuyl? 

[She   gives   them   each   the   most   correct   of 
smiles  and  bows,  unconsciously  dropping 


Act  I]  ROMANCE 

her  handkerchief  as  she  does  so,  then  goes 
downstairs.  As  she  goes,  there  is  a  mur 
mur  swelling  up  into  loud  applause  which 
comes  from  below.  She  is  smiling  and 
kissing  her  hand  to  this  unseen  crowd  as 
she  disappears. 

[A  pause.  VAN  TUYL  lights  a  cigar.  TOM, 
staring  after  her,  comes  slowly  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  sees  the  handkerchief 
and  picks  it  up.  He  is  fingering  it  aim 
lessly  when  he  sees  the  initials  at  one 
corner.  He  looks  at  them  more  carefully 
— and  then  turns  dumbly  to  VAN  TUYL. 
The  orchestra  begins  below. 

VAN  TUYL.      [Gently.]     Do  you  mean  to  say  you  really 
didn't  know  who  she  was? 

TOM.      [Shaking  his  head  and  speaking  almost  inarticu 
lately. ,]     No — I  hadn't  the  least  idea — 
A  WOMAN'S  VOICE.      [Singing  below.] 
"  Non  conosci  il  bel  suol 

Che  di  porpora  ha  il,  del? 
II  bel  suol  u  de'  rai 

Son  piu  tersi  t  colori? 
"  Ove  I'aura  e  piu  dolce 
Piii  lieve  I'augel 

[ToM  walks  slowly  to  the  balustrade  and 
stands  there,  looking  down  at  the  singer 
in  the  room  below.  VAN  TUYL  watches, 
him  rather  sadly  as 

The  Curtain  Falls. 


264  ROMANCE  [Act  II 


ACT  II 

[SCENE:  New  Year's  afternoon.  The  study  of  St.  Giles 
Rectory,  a  charmingly  old-fashioned,  spacious  New 
York  house,  looking  out  upon  a  quiet  street.  The 
study  is  a  square  room.  At  the  left  are  two  windows, 
with  heavy,  rather  faded  curtains.  In  them  hang  holly 
wreaths,  tied  with  scarlet  bows.  At  the  back  is  the 
double-doorway  leading  into  the  hall.  At  one  side  of 
it  hangs  the  bell-rope.  Over  it  is  a  long  oar,  and,  above 
this  a  mounted  stag's  head.  At  the  right  is  the  white 
marble  mantel  and  fireplace,  in  which  a  fire  is  burning. 
On  the  mantel  are  several  silver  cups,  medals  in  their 
open  cases,  little  old-fashioned  photographs  of  young 
men,  a  big  old  clock,  and  two  handsome  candelabra. 
Over  the  mantel  is  a  large  steel  engraving  of  Del 
Sarto's  St.  John.  Near  the  fireplace  is  a  rack  contain 
ing  rods  and  guns.  A  pair  of  boxing-gloves  hangs  here, 
too.  There  are  bookcases  at  the  back,  filled  with  sober, 
pious,  dusty  volumes.  On  top  these  bookcases  are  a 
few  more  engravings  of  old  Masters — a  Last  Supper, 
etc.  In  one  corner  stands  an  old-fashioned  cabinet, 
with  glass-covered  shelves  and  drawers  below. 

In  front  of  the  window  is  a  very  large,  heavy  table- 
desk;  on  it  are  a  lamp,  a  water-pitcher  and  glass,  desk- 
fittings,  several  books,  a  daguerreotype  in  a  velvet  case, 
a  large,  well-used  Bible,  a  smaller  Testament,  etc.  A 
big  leather  chair  faces  this  desk.  There  are  one  or 
two  other  chairs  near  it.  Across  the  room  and  placed 
so  that  the  keyboard  is  not  seen  is  a  small  but  ex 
quisite  old-fashioned  square  piano.  There  are  candles 
on  each  side  of  the  keyboard  and  several  rather  worn 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  265 

volumes  of  bound  music,  neatly  ranged.  Near  the  fire 
place  is  a  hair-cloth  settee.  All  the  furniture  is  old- 
fashioned  black  walnut,  upholstered  in  black.  An  old- 
fashioned  red  carpet  covers  the  floor. 

The  sunlight  of  a  cold  winter's  afternoon  comes 
through  the  windows.  Outdoors  the  glitter  of  snow  is 
seen.  As  the  act  goes  on  the  sunlight  changes  to  the 
ruddy  glow  of  a  winter's  sunset,  and  then  the  twilight 
fills  the  room  with  shadows. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Miss  ARMSTRONG,  wearing  a  little 
black  silk  apron,  is  discovered  arranging  some  roses  in 
a  bowl  on  the  desk.  The  clock  on  the  mantel  strikes 
four.] 

[The  door  opens  and  GILES,  the  old  butler,  appears. 

GILES.     Miss  Van  Tuyl. 

[SusAN  enters,  dressed  in  bonnet  and  mantle. 

SUSAN.  [Coming  in.]  Tom,  I —  Seeing  Miss  ARM 
STRONG.]  Oh,  Happy  New  Year,  Miss  Armstrong! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  Don't  be  premature,  my  dear — it's 
only  New  Year's  Eve.  [Kissing  her.]  What  nice  cold 
cheeks  you  have ! 

SUSAN.  [Laughing.]  I  ought  to — I've  been  walking. 
Tom  asked  me  to  come  in  at  four,  and  hear  about  the  final 
arrangements  for  to-night. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     To-night — ? 

SUSAN — Yes.  The  midnight  New  Year's  service  for  the 
lost  and  friendless. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Oh,  that! 

SUSAN.  [Enthusiastically.]  We're  going  to  have  a  brass 
band  and  torches  and  sing  hymns  and  parade  the  streets 
for  half  an  hour  beforehand — oh,  it'll  be  wonderful!  Is 
Tom  upstairs? 


ROMANCE  [Act  II 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Nervously.]  No.  He  went  out  after 
luncheon — er — to  pay  a  call. 

SUSAN.     [Meaningly.]    At  the  Brevoort  House? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Flustered.]  Oh,  I'm  sure  he'll  be 
liere  if  you  wait  a  moment!  He  has  a  Deaconesses'  Meet 
ing  at  a  quarter  to  five  and  I  know  he  never  would  miss 
that! 

SUSAN.  Wouldn't  he?  Well,  we'll  see — [Noticing  the 
-flowers.]  What  lovely  roses  ! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  They're  mine — they  came  just  a  mo 
ment  ago.  Without  any  card,  too! 

SUSAN.  [Chaffing  her.]  Aha !  An  anonymous  ad 
mirer — ! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Embarrassed  and  pleased.]  My  dear, 
3aow  foolish !  But  you  know  it's  the  first  time  in  years 
that  anyone's  sent  me  flowers,  and — 

[There  is  the  sound  of  sleighbells  outside. 

SUSAN.  [At  the  window.]  Oh,  look!  It's  uncle's  sleigh! 
He's  driving  his  new  team ! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.    Is  he  getting  out? 

'SusAN.  Yes.  He's  come  to  call  for  me  on  his  way  up 
town.  [Glancing  at  clock.]  I  wonder  if  Tom — 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  My  dear,  there's  no  telling  when  he'll 
be  back.  And  as  there's  something  I  want  to  discuss  with 
your  uncle,  I  think  you  may  as  well  go  home. 

SUSAN.  Miss  Armstrong,  promise  me  not  to  tell  him 
I  came — unless  he  speaks  of  it  himself,  I  mean.  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  drag  on  him.  Oh,  Miss  Armstrong,  prom 
ise — please! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  Very  well,  my  dear — if  you  insist, 
and — 

[GILES  enters. 

GILES.     [Announcing.]     Mr.  Van  Tuyl. 

[He  stands  aside  to  let  VAN  TUYL  pass. 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  26T 

VAN  TUYL.  [Who  wears  a  long  fur  coat  and  driving* 
gloves.]  How  d'you  do,  Miss  Armstrong.  Real  New 
Year's  Eve  weather — eh?  [Taking  off  his  coat  and  giving 
it  to  GILES.]  Well,  Susannah!  I  thought  I'd  find  you  and 
Tom  waving  your  arms  and  singing  hymns  and  generally 
getting  up  steam  for  to-night's  procession! 

SUSAN.  [Smiling.]  Tom's  out.  Can  Ralph  take  me 
home?  [She  puts  on  her  wraps.] 

VAN  TUYL.  Yes — good  idea.  I  don't  like  to  keep  the 
horses  standing.  [To  Miss  ARMSTRONG.]  Have  you  seen 
my  new  team,  Miss  Armstrong?  The  prettiest  sight  in 
New  York — [At  the  window.]  Look  at  that  off  mare 
there!  Isn't  she  a  little  witch?  The  highest  stepper  on 
the  Avenue  and  a  mouth  like  a  French  kid  glove! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  She  looks  very  wild  indeed!  [Ta 
SUSAN.]  Good-bye,  my  dear.  Tell  Ralph  to  be  careful. 

SUSAN.  [Kissing  Miss  ARMSTRONG.]  Don't  forget  your 
promise.  [In  a  lower  voice.]  And,  dear,  don't  worry.  7  don't 
worry — I  know  it's  going  to  be  all  right.  [She  goes  out.J 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Turning  from  the  door.]  Oh,  Mr. 
Van  Tuyl,  I — I  am  in  great — in  very  great  distress ! 

VAN  TUYL.     Dear  lady,  what  is  it? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Crying  quietly.]  I'm  ashamed  to. 
act  like  this — but — it's  been  so  hard  carrying  it  on  mv 
mind — all  alone — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Soothingly.]     There — !     Count  on  me. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  You're  Tom's  oldest  friend — and  his 
father's  and  mother's  before  him — and  you're  his  leading 
parishioner,  too — and  the  chairman  of  the  vestry— 

[She  sniffs. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Comfortingly.]     I  know — I  know — 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Breaking  down.]  Oh,  save  him, 
Mr.  Van  Tuyl — save  him  from  that  d-d-dreadful  woman! 

[She  sobs. 


268  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

VAN  TUYL.  I've  done  my  best.  He  came  to  see  me 
Saturday  about  the  new  gymnasium  and  I  talked  to  him 
as  I  would  have  to  my  own  son. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     What  did  he  say? 

VAN  TUYL.  He  was  very  sweet,  but  somehow  he  wasn't 
there — the  real  Tom,  I  mean — it  was  only  the  outside 
shell  that  I  was  speaking  to. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  I  know!  I've  seen  it!  He's  with 
her! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Reassuringly.]  Oh,  come,  Miss  Armstrong! 
You  mustn't  be  alarmed!  Remember  that  she  sails 
to-morrow  morning,  and — [Glancing  out  window.'] 
Hello—! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.      [Stopping.]      What's  the  matter? 

VAN  TUYL.  Why,  her  carriage  is  just  stopping  at  your 
door! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [In  amazed  horror.]  Not  Madame 
Cavallini — ? 

VAN  TUYL.  I  rather  think  she's  out  to  pay  some  calls. 
[As  Miss  ARMSTRONG  goes  and  pulls  the  bell-rope.]  What 
are  you  going  to  do? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Tell  Giles  I'm  out. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Frankly.]  Let  her  come  in.  Perhaps  I 
could  say  a  word  or  two — 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Earnestly.]  You'll  make  her  prom 
ise  not  to  write  to  him? 

VAN  TUYL.     I'll  do  my  best. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Vehemently.]  There  ought  to  be  a 
law  against  such  women!  Why,  I'd  sooner  have  a  hun 
gry  tigress  walk  into  this  room  than — 

GILES.     [At  door.]     Madame  Cavallini. 

[He  enters  and  stands  aside  to  let  her  pass. 
She  comes  in  quickly.  She  wears  a  won 
derful  black  velvet  dress,  an  ermine  coat, 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  269 

and  a  little  ermine  hat.    Around  her  neck 

is  a  long  rope  of  pearls;  at  the  end  hangs 

a  cross.    In  her  arms,  as  if  it  were  a  baby, 

she  carries  a  great  ermine   muff.     From 

one  end  of  this  peeps  a  monkey's  head, 

adorned  with  a  scarlet  satin  turban,  a  long 

green  cigarette  and  a  diamond  clasp.] 

RITA.     [To  Miss  ARMSTRONG,  shaking  hands.]     My  dear 

meess,  'ow  you  do?     I  come  in  for  vone  meenute  jus'  to 

say  good-bye  an' — 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Seeing  monkey  and  drawing  back 
with  a  cry.]  Oh—!  What's  that—? 

RITA.     What — ?     [Noting  her  look.]     An'  I  breeng  my 
leetle  bab-ee  to  show  you.     You  like  bab-ees — yes  ? 
Miss  ARMSTRONG.     That's  not — a  baby? 
RITA.     [Laughing.]     Oh,  no — no — no!     Vhat  you  t'ink? 
I  call  'er  bab-ee — because  I  am  so — lonely — you  too  'ave 
no  bab-ee,  so  you  on'erstan' — yes?      [Seeing  VAN  TUYL.] 
Oh — !     [Advancing  to  him.]     'Ow  you  do,  Meestaire  Van 
Tuyl? 

[She  shakes  hands  with  him. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Shaking  hands.]  How  do  you  do?  It 
seems  a  long  time  since  we've  met. 

RITA.  Dat  night  I  sing  at  your  so  bee-eautiful  soiree! 
To  me,  also,  it  seem  a  long,  long  time. 

VAN  TUYL.  And  Adelina — [To  the  monkey.]  Comment 
ga  va,  mademoiselle — hein?  I  hope  you  find  the  weather 
not  too  cold — ? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Adelina — ? 

RITA.  Yes — because  she  look  so  much  like  Patti  in  La 
Traviata.  [To  VAN  TUYL.]  I  t'ink  she  'ave  forget  you, 
sir. 

VAN  TUYL.     You  ladies  can  forget  so  quickly. 

RITA.    Yes  ?    Sometime — I  vish  you  men  forget  a  leetle — 


270  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

too!      [Taking   the   monkey   out   from    muff.~\      Tesoruccio 
mio,  sei  quasi  gelato — non  importa  qui  fa  caldo! 

[The  tiny  animal  wears  a  fantastic  costume 
of  bright  green  satin.  Her  skirt  is  orna 
mented  with  large  diamond  buttons. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Why,  it's  all  dressed  up ! 

RITA.  [In  surprise.]  But  surely  she  is  dress!  Do  you 
vant  she  go — 'ow  you  say? — naked?  Dat  vould  be — ah! 
shockeeng ! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Are  those — real  diamond  buttons? 

RITA — Yes.  De  prince  de  Chimay,  'e  give  'er  dose.  So 
pretty — eh  ? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Indignantly.]  I  call  it  sinful 
waste — ! 

RITA.      [Wistfully.]     You  don'  like  de  monkee — no? 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     Certainly  not — horrid  little  animals ! 

RITA.  [Warningly.]  Tschk—!  Tschk— !  You  'urt 
'er  feeling!  Ecco — see — !  She  begin  to  cry!  [Suddenly 
thrusting  Adelina  into  Miss  Armstrong's  arms.]  Kiss  'er 
please — tell  her  you  like  'er  jus'  vone  leetle  bit — 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Frantically.]  Stop  it!  How  dare 
you — ?  Take  it  away — oh!  oh!  It's  going  to  bite  me — 
Mr.  Fan  Tuyl— 

VAN  TUYL.  [Taking  the  monkey.]  Come  here,  Ade 
lina — there — that's  right ! 

RITA.  [To  monkey.]  Bellezza  mia!  tu  un'  faresti  male 
a  nessuno!  [Taking  monkey.]  I  t'ink  she  is  like  me, 
Meestaire  Van  Tuyl.  [With  a  reproachful  glance  towards 
Miss  ARMSTRONG.]  She  is  not  'appy  when  de  peoples  do 
not  love  'er!  [Slipping  the  monkey  into  muff  again.]  Ti 
amo  bambinello  mio — si — ti  amo! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     [Watching  her.]     Ugh! 

RITA.  [Putting  both  muff  and  monkey  in  big  chair  by 
fire  where  neither  can  be  seen.]  I  put  'er  'ere  an'  she  vill 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  271 

take  vone  leetle  nap!  [Bending  over  chair.]  Dormi,  bam- 
bina  cara  di  mamma — e  stai  la — buona,  buona — finche  mam 
ma  ti  sveglia!  [Rising  and  turning  quickly  to  Miss  ARM 
STRONG.]  Santi!  I  'ave  forget!  I  'ave  a  somet'ing  to  tell 
you  from  Meestaire  Tom! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     You've  seen  him? 

RITA.  [Innocently.]  But  yes — 'e  drive  vit*  me.  I 
leave  'im  at  de — oh,  vhat  you  say? — de  parish  'ouse.  'E 
mus'  spik  to  de  con-firm-a-tion  class — [To  VAN  TUYL.] 
What  is  dat?  Con-firm— 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Interrupting.}  Isn't  he  coming 
home  ? 

RITA.  Yes — jus'  a  leetle  vhile,  'e  say.  [Holding  out 
her  hand  to  Miss  ARMSTRONG.]  So  I  come  firs' — to  make 
my  respec'  to  you,  dear  meess,  an'  say  good-bye. 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [Stiffly,  to  VAN  TUYL,  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  the  outstretched  hand.]  When  Madame  Cavallini 
goes,  I  hope  you'll  step  up  to  my  sitting-room  and  have  a 
cup  of  tea?  [He  bows.] 

RITA.  [Seeing  the  roses  on  the  desk.]  A-ah !  De  roses — 
dey  arrive  all  right?  You  like  dem — yes?  I  'ave  choose 
each  vone  myself — !  [She  smiles  winningly  at  Miss  ARM 
STRONG.] 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.     [Amazed.]     You  sent  me  those — ? 

RITA.  [Wistfully.]  Jus'  a  leetle  surprise — to  remember 
me  two — t'ree  days  after  I  'ave  gone — so  far! 

Miss  ARMSTRONG.  [After  a  speechless  moment.]  Thank 
you — you  were  very  kind.  [She  goes  over  and  takes  up  the 
bowl  of  roses  from  the  desk.]  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  will  put  you 
in  your  carriage  whenever  you're  ready.  Good-bye,  ma- 
dame,  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage!  [She  goes  out  at 
back.] 

RITA.  [Turning  in  wonder  to  VAN  TUYL.]  Vhat  for  she 
go  avay  so  qveeck? 


272  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

VAN  TUYL.  I  asked  her  to.  I  said  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  alone. 

RITA.  [Turning  away.]  Yes?  Could  you  not'  come 
to  my  'otel? 

VAN  TUYL.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't 
be  received. 

RITA.  [Not  looking  at  him.]  Mebbe  you  are  not  so 
wrong. 

VAN  TUYL.     Come  here. 

RITA.     [Coming  up  to  him.]     Vhat  you  vant? 

[She  looks  at  him  and  suddenly  smiles. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Smiling,  too.]  You  little  monkey,  you — 
[Recovering  himself.]  Now  pretend  for  five  minutes  I'm 
your  father  confessor ! 

RITA.     You  vant  to  scold  me — yes? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Taking  her  by  the  shoulders.]  Well,  that 
depends — we'll  see.  Has  Tom  asked  you  to  marry  him? 

RITA.     [After  a  little  pause.]     No. 

VAN   TUYL.     I'm  glad.     And  if  he  did? 

RITA.  [Not  looking  at  him,  speaking  with  a  rather 
sulky  defiance.]  I  vould  not  marry  'im — an  Amer'can 
cler-gee-man.  'E  vould  vant  I  stop  singing  an'  be  so 
frightful  good  an'  live  'ere  in  dis  'orrible  New  York — 
mos'  col'  diza-agree-ble  place  I  ever  see — !  Adelina,  in 
two — free  mont's  she  die — yes !  An'  'e  vould  not  let  me 
go  to  Paris  vhen  I  need  de  new  dress — an'  I  vould  be  all 
bore — an'  seeck — [With  a  sniff.]  Mebbe  I  die,  too — an' 
den — everyvone  is  glad — !  [She  dries  her  eyes  resolutely 
with  her  handkerchief.]  Oh,  no,  my  frien',  I  vould 
not  marry  'im — no — no — dat  vould  be  vone  beeg  mees- 
take! 

VAN  TUYL.     Then  why  do  you  lead  the  poor  boy  on? 

RITA.     Lead  'im — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     He's  not  like  the  young  gentlemen  you're 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  273 

accustomed  to  have  circling  round  you — remember  that, 
my  dear!  He's  not  a  Baron  Vigier  or  a  Captain  Pon- 
sonby  or  a — who  was  that  little  Pole  who  singed  his  wings 
so  badly  when  you  sang  last  spring  in  Brussels? 

RITA.     No,  my  frien' — no — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Interrupting.]  Well,  isn't  that  pretty 
much  the  way  you're  treating  him?  Aren't  you  amus 
ing  yourself — just  a  little  bit  at  his  expense? 

RITA.  You  do  not  on'erstan' — ah!  it  is  so  'ard  to  say! 
Leesten — !  [She  speaks  very  seriously.]  'Ow  long  I  know 
'im?  Two  mont's?  Ver'  veil — [Solemnly.]  In  all  dat 
time  'e  'as  not  spik  to  me  a  vord  of  love — no,  not  vone 
leetle  vord! 

VAN  TUYL.      [Amazed.]     What—? 

RITA.  At  first  I  try  to  make  him — oh,  you  know — jus' 
for  fun !  An'  den— some'ow — I  am  so  sorry  for  'im — 
an'  I  don't  try  any  more ! 

[She  sits  on  a  hassock  at  his  feet,  leaning 
against  his  knees.  He  puts  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Tenderly.]  My  poor  little  Rita.  Don't 
you  know  there's  nothing  in  all  this,  dear,  for  you? 

RITA.  [With  a  sigh.]  Oh,  yes!  I  'ave  so  often  say, 
"  Seelly  voman,  do  not  see  'im  vhen  'e  come  today.  Jus' 
tell  de  gentleman  down-stair  you  vant  to  sleep  an'  no- 
bod-ee  shall  vake  you  up !  " 

VAN  TUYL.     Well,  why  didn't  you? 

RITA.  I  say  no-bod-ee — like  dat!  No-bod-ee  in  all  de 
vorld — [Shamefacedly.] — excep'  jus'  Meestaire  Tom! 
[With  a  sigh.]  0  Dio,  come  e  dura  la  vita! 

VAN  TUYL.    So  that's  the  way  it  went! 

RITA.  An'  'e  come  so  much — oh!  all  de  time!  An'  I 
cannot  practice  an'  'e  take  me  for  de  valk  in  de  Gran'  Cen 
tral  Park.  Vone  day  'e  keep  me  so  late,  dere  is  no  re- 


274  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

'earsal — yes,   an'    I    sing   dat   night — !      Oh !    It   vas   mos' 
terr'ble!      [Shyly. ]      But  also  it  vas — nize  ! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Softly.]     I  know — I  know — 

RITA.  An'  den  ve  go  'ome  to  de  'otel  an*  I  play  for  'im — 
an'  sing — sometime  I  tell  de  fortune  vit'  de  card.  An'  'e 
sit  near  an'  spik  of  many  t'ings ! 

VAN   TUYL.     What  sort  of  things? 

RITA.  Oh,  I  dunno.  Sometime  vhat  'appen  vhen  'e 
vas  a  leetle  boy — an'  vhat  de  bee-shop  say  about  'is  vork — 
an'  of  de  new  geem-nas-i-um  'e  'ave  build — an'  so  much 
of  de  poor  peoples  dat  'e  vant  to  'elp. 

VAN   TUYL.     He  talks  of  them  to  you? 

RITA.  [Nodding.]  Oh,  yes!  An'  I — I  tell  'im  vhat 
I  t'ink!  I  vounce  vas  poor — I  know — I  on'erstan'. 
[Glancing  up  at  him.']  I  t'ink  you  smile  a  leetle — yes? 

VAN  TUYL.     No,  I'm  not  smiling,  dear.      [Pause.'] 

RITA.  [With  a  sigh.]  Ah,  my  frien',  I  am  vone  great 
big  fool — I — who  'ave  believe  I  vas  so  vise ! 

[She  smiles  and  shakes  her  head. 

VAN  TUYL.  Never  mind,  my  dear.  It's  over  now. 
You're  leaving  us  to-morrow. 

RITA.     [Glancing  up.]     You  t'ink  'e  vill  forget  me — yes? 

VAN  TUYL.     I'm  sure  you  hope  he  will. 

RITA.  [Looking  off.]  I  t'ink  I  vill  not  forget  'im — 
or  if  I  do  it  take  a  long,  long  time ! 

VAN  TUYL.  Ssh!  Nonsense!  [Putting  his  hands  over 
her  eyes.]  Shut  your  eyes  and  think  of  all  that's  wait 
ing  for  you  over  there!  Rome.  Just  say  it  yourself. 
Rome.  Do  you  remember  those  last  evenings  on  the  ter 
race  of  the  Villa  d'Este?  And  inside  the  Abbe  Liszt 
just  playing  and  playing  his — what  did  he  call  'em? — 
"  Consolations  ?  "  Do  you  remember  that  old  piece  of 
balustrade,  and  the  Campagna,  all  purple  like  the  twi 
light-laden  sea?  And  far  away,  like  smoke  against  the 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  275 

sky,  St.  Peter's  dome?  And  that's  not  all — there's  Flor 
ence,,  and  the  olive-covered  hills  of  Fiesole !  You'll  be 
there  for  the  first  breath  of  the  spring!  And  Como  with 
the  snow  still  on  the  mountains!  And  Paris — why,  you'll 
see  the  first  acacias  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain — you'll 
smell  the  lilacs  when  you're  driving  in  the  Bois — !  And 

Gounod  will  be  there,  and  your  dear  old  friend  Rossini ! 

Think  of  the  dinners  at  the  Maison  Doree,  and  the  violets 
in  the  forest  of  Compiegne — !  Think  of  the  suppers  Cora 
Pearl  will  give!  Do  you  remember  when  the  Brohan 
poured  her  champagne  down  the  prince's  back?  And 
Marianne  de  Murska — good  old  Gigi,  too — why,  don't  you 
know  what  fun  you're  going  to  have? 

RITA.     Oh,  dere  is  only  vone  t'ing  dat  I  know! 
VAN  TUYL.     What's  that? 

RITA.     [Passionately.]     I  love  'im — I  love  'im — 
VAN  TUYL.      [Covering  her  mouth  with  his  hand.]     Ssh 
— !     Rita,  you  oughtn't  to  have  come  here  today.     It  isn't 
right — it  isn't  fair  to  either  of  you. 
RITA.     But  'e  ask  me  so  many  time! 
VAN  TUYL.     If  you  don't  look  out,  you're  going  to  make 
him  suffer  a  great  deal. 

RITA.      [Quickly.]      Ah — no — no! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Gently.]     It  rests  with  you,  my  dear — his 
happiness  or  pain. 

RITA.     [After  a  pause,  rising.]     All  right.     I  go  now — 
befor  'e  come. 

VAN  TUYL.     You  won't  regret  it,  dear. 
RITA.      [Unpinning  a  bunch  of  white   violets  from  her 
wrap.]      So  vhen  'e  ask   for  me— jus'  give   'im  dese— an* 
say  it  is — adieu — 

[She  kisses  the  violets  and  holds  them  out  to 
him.  Just  here  the  door  opens  and  TOM 
bursts  in,  full  of  ^splendid  spirit sf( utterly 


276  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

boyish  and  happy.     He  wears  his  over 
coat  and  gloves. 

TOM.  [Entering.]  Well,  did  you  think  I  never  was — 
[Seeing  VAN  TUYL.]  Oh,  is  that  you,  sir?  How  do  you 
do?  [Shaking  hands.]  I'm  glad  Madame  Cavallini  hasn't 
been  waiting  here  alone.  Where's  Aunt  Emma? 

VAN   TUYL.      Upstairs. 

TOM.  [Pulling  off  his  gloves.]  Whew — !  It's  cold 
outside!  I'm  nearly  frozen  and  I  ran  home,  too!  Those 
little  rascals  were  so  stupid — I  wanted  to  spank  the  lot! 
[Rubbing  his  hands.]  Now  I'll  just  put  some  more  coal 
on  the  fire  and  then  we'll  sit  down  and — 

VAN  TUYL.  I  think,  Tom,  Mme.  Cavallini  was  just 
going  when  you  came  in. 

TOM.      [Stopping.]      Going — ? 

RITA.  [Recollecting  herself.]  Yes,  I  mus'  sleep  a  leetle 
before  tonight — my  las'  performance — I  so  much  vant  to 
give  my  best —  [She  has  moved  towards  the  door. 

TOM.  [Running  up  and  taking  her  hand.]  Oh,  come 
now,  you're  not  going! 

RITA.  [Faltering.]  Please,  Meestaire  Tom,  de  per 
formance — 

TOM.  [Drawing  her  over  to  fire.]  Oh,  that's  all  right — 
it's  Mignon  and  you  know  it  backwards. 

RITA.     [Helplessly  to  VAN  TUYL.]     You  see — 
[GILES  enters  at  back. 

GILES  [At  door.]  Miss  Armstrong's  compliments,  Mr. 
Van  Tuyl,  and  tea  is  served  in  the  sitting-room  upstairs. 

TOM.  [Quickly.]  Don't  say  we're  here.  We'll  come  up 
later.  [VAN  TUYL  looks  at  RITA. 

RITA.     [Pleadingly.]     In  jus'  vone  leetle  vhile ! 

[With   a   shrug,  VAN   TUYL   turns   and  goes 
out.     GILES  closes  the  door  after  him. 

TOM.      [With   a   sigh   of  pleasure   as   the   door   closes.] 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  277' 

There!  Now  isn't  this  fine?  I  tell  you,  it's  like  a  dream 
come  true ! 

RITA.      Vhat  dream,  please? 

TOM.  You — here  in  my  big  armchair — in  front  of  my 
fire — in  my  study ! 

RITA.  [Wistfully.]  A  dream — ah,  dat  is  vhat  I  am! 
A  leetle  dream  dat  lose  'er  vay  an'  rest  vone  meenute  in 
your  sleeping  'eart. 

TOM.     One  minute  ?     Always  ! 

RITA.  [Smiling.]  Ah  no,  my  frien'.  To-morrow  you 
vake  up,  an'  pouf !  dat  leetle  dream — she  is  all  gone! 

TOM.     No — don't — 

RITA.  [Softly.]  You  'ave  been  'appy  den,  dese  las' 
veeks — yes  ? 

TOM.     [Lifting  his  eyes  to  hers.]     You  know. 

Rita.     [Very  softly.]     I  'ave  been  'appy  too. 

TOM.     [Impulsively.]     Don't  go  to-morrow ! 

RITA.     Vhat  you  say? 

TOM.     Stay  on  till  spring! 

RITA.  But  'ave  I  not  tell  you  I  mus'  sing  in  Rome  nexT 
mont' — ?  An'  I  go  to  Venice  for  de  new  opera  Verdi  *ave 
compose — 

TOM.     Don't  go — oh,  please  don't  go! 

RITA.  An'  den  I  mus'  see  Mapleson  in  London,  an*  de- 
Russian  concert  tour  begin  in  June — 

TOM.     I  don't  care — I  just  can't  say  good-bye! 

RITA.     [Illumined.]     Den  come  vit'  me ! 

TOM.      [Surprised.]     What? 

RITA.     Go  qveeck  an'  buy  de  teecket — 

TOM.     Ticket — ? 

RITA.  [Enthusiastically.]  Yes — before  dey  are  alt 
gone! — an'  to-morrow  ve  put  de  clo'es  in  de  box  an'  de 
box  on  de  carriage  an'  drive  to  de  quai  an'  oh!  ve  staz** 
on  de  boat — you  an'  me  an*  Adelina — an'  ve  vave  de  'an*- 


278  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

kerchief  an'  t'row  de  kiss  an'  laugh!  —  oh!  my  Lord,  'ow 
ve  laugh  at  all  de  stupid  peoples  ve  leave  behin'  !  Vhat  you 
t'ink  of  dat?  Hem? 

TOM.  I  think  it's  wonderful.  But  I've  got  a  meeting 
of  the  Board  of  Charities  to-morrow  at  eleven,  and  Patrick 
Crowley's  funeral  at  twelve,  and  after  dinner  I  offer  my 
annual  report  to  the  Vestry  Committee,  and  in  the  evening 
my  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  boys  — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.']  I  'ave  forget  you  are  a  clerg-ee- 
man. 

TOM.     And  I  forgot  you  were  a  Golden  Nightingale. 


RITA.  [Nodding  to  herself.]  I  t'ink  it  is  a  ver'  good 
I  go  avay  to-morrow. 

TOM.  [Much  downcast.]  But  you're  coming  back  next 
year  ? 

RITA.  [With  a  gesture.']  Ah,  vhy  talk  about  nex'  year  — 
it  is  so  far  avay! 

TOM.  In  my  profession,  one  has  to  think  a  great  deal 
.about  things  that  are  far  away. 

RITA.  Den  you  are  ver'  foolish  —  [As  he  starts  to  pro- 
Zest.]  —  yes,  you  are  !  Leesten  !  I  am  oF  an'  I  know  de  vorld 

—  so  vhat  I  tell  you  now  you  mus'  remember  alvays. 
TOM.    Well? 

BITA.  [Wistfully.]  Yesterday  —  it  is  a  dream  ve  'ave 
lorget.  To-morrow  —  jus'  de  'ope  of  some  great  'appiness 

—  some  joy  dat  never  come!     Before,  behin'  —  all  clouds 
.an'  stars  an'  shadow  —  nodings,  nodings  dat  is  real  —  only 
<de  leetle  meenute  dat  we  call  to-day! 

TOM.      [Bitterly.]      To-day's  so  short! 

RITA.  [With  a  smile.]  Ah,  you  are  young,  my  frien'  ! 
De  time  vill  come  vhen  you  are  glad  to  'ave  dat  leetle 
meenute  —  so  glad  you  vould  not  t'ink  to  ask  for  more  ! 
j_Changing  her  tone.]  Dio  mio!  De  'ours,  dey  fly  so  fas'! 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  27$ 

[Pointing   to   a   chair.]      Go   sit   down — fold   your   'andst 
Now  ve  vill  see  'ow  much  Eetalian  I  'ave  teach  you. 

TOM.  [Disappointed.]  Oh,  bother  Italian!  Don't  let's 
waste  time  when — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  De  lesson  'ave  begin.  [Primly.J 
~Buon  giorno,  signor. 

TOM.     [Sulkily.]     Buon  giorno,  signora. 

RITA.    Sta  ella  bene  oggi? 

TOM.  [With  some  difficulty.]  Molto  grazie  io  tone 
benissimo. 

RITA.     [Smiling.]    Sono  quelli  i  suoi  istrumenti  da  pesca? 

[Pointing  to  case — right. 

TOM.     [Not  understanding.]     Istrumenti  da  pesca? 

RITA.  [Imitating  the  act  of  fishing.]  'Ow  you  say— for 
de  feeshes? 

TOM.     [Understanding.]     Oh,  fishing  rods! 

RITA.    Si — si!    Le  piace  pescare? 

TOM.     [Shaking  his  head.]     Er — I'm  afraid  I  don't  get  it. 

RITA.    You  lika  to  'unt  de  feeshes? 

TOM.  [Enthusiastically.]  Do  I?  Well,  I  should  say? 
There's  a  stream  up  in  the  Adirondack  Mountains — you'd 
just  love  those  mountains! — where  I  landed  ninety-four 
trout  in  one  day !  Ninety-four — what  do  you  think  of  that? 

RITA.     Poor  leetle  feeshes  ! 

TOM.  [Tolerantly.]  Oh,  they  don't  mind.  They  like 
to  be  caught. 

RITA.  [Pointing  to  the  stag's  head  over  the  door.]  E 
quel'  cervo  lo  ha  ammazzato  lei  anche  quello? 

TOM.    Did  I  shoot  him,  you  mean? 

RITA.     Si — si. 

TOM.  [Enthusiastically.]  Well,  you'd  better  believe  I 
did !  I  got  him  all  myself  and — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Oh,  la — la!  Badi!  Italiano — 
Italiano! 


280  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

TOM.  [Pointing  to  himself  proudly. ]  lo — tutti  io — 
guide  three  miles  away !  Moltissimo  grande — Biggest  bucko 
vthat  season — tried  to  gore  me  with  those  antlers,  but  I 
plugged  him  just  in  time — molto  sporto,  I  tell  you! 

RITA.  [Clasping  her  hands. ]  Santa  Madonna!  You 
mus'  be  careful  please — mebbe  some  day  you  get  'urted ! 

TOM.     [With  a  slight  swagger.]     Oh,  no,  I  won't! 

RITA.  [Looking  over  the  door.]  An'  de  beeg  oar — vhy 
you  keep  'im  dere? 

TOM.  [Proudly.]  I  pulled  that  oar  in  the  best  race  Yale 
>ever  won  I  I  was  number  six — we  beat  Harvard  by  quarter 
of  a  boat-length.  That  was  '59 — my  senior  year.  [Anx 
iously.]  They  didn't  have  anything  about  it  in  the  European 
papers,  did  they?  No — ?  [Looking  at  the  oar.]  Well, 
it  was  a  great  race  just  the  same! 

RITA.     [Softly.]     I  am  so  glad  you  vin! 

TOM.  [Pleased.]  We  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  it  hadn't 
l>een  for  Dicky  Parker.  [Going  to  the  mantel  and  taking 
up  a  small  photograph.]  He  was  our  stroke — had  the 
finest  pair  of  legs  in  college,  and  as  for  his  back — [Rever 
ently.] — well,  I  just  wish  you  could  see  the  muscles  in  his 
back!  [Giving  her  the  picture.]  Here  he  is — he  looks  sort 
tof  foolish  in  that  picture,  though. 

RITA.     [Looking  at  it.]     He  look  ver'  nize. 

TOM.  [Giving  her  another  picture.]  And  here's  Dave 
Sterling.  He  played  first  base  on  the  college  team.  Dave 
went  to  China  last  year  as  a  missionary — [Giving  her  an 
other.]  And  here's  Frank  Willis — he  was  killed  at  Gettys 
burg,  you  know — [Suddenly  seizing  another  in  a  frame  at 
the  end  of  the  mnntel.]  Oh,  and  here's  Wallie  Fletcher — 
she's  the  fellow  I  told  you  about,  that  used  io  spend  his 
summers  with  me  up  at  Peekskill  before  father  sold  the 
place. 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  281 

RITA.  [Taking  the  picture.]  De  leetle  boy  dat  sveem' 
across  de  rivair? 

TOM.  That's  the  one!  Didn't  we  have  good  times- 
though?  We  always  went  barefoot — used  to  pick  up  things- 
with  our  toes.  I  could  beat  Wallie  running  and  jumping,  but 
of  course  he  had  me  when  it  came  to  swimming — and  then 
he  could  whistle  through  his  teeth !  Dear  me,  when  I  think 
of  the  hours  I  spent  in  the  back  pasture  all  by  myself,  just 
trying  to  whistle  through  my  teeth ! 

RITA.      [Sympathetically.]     A-ah ! 

TOM.  But  I  made  up  for  it  when  I  learnt  to  turn  a 
back  somersault.  Wallie  used  to  rub  himself  every  night 
with  boiled  angle-worms — he'd  heard  all  acrobats  did  that 
—  [Suddenly.]  But  there!  I'm  always  talking  about  my 
self!  Suppose  you  talk  about  yourself  for  a  change? 

RITA.     Me—? 

TOM.  Yes,  tell  me  about  some  of  the  larks  you  used  to 
have.  The  good  times — you  know  what  I  mean ! 

RITA.     [A  little  timidly.]    De  good  time — ?    I  am  afraid 
I  did  not  'ave  dat  ver'  much — [Suddenly.]     But  vait!    Yes, 
I  remember  vonce !    My  baba — 
.ToM.     [Interrupting.]    -What? 

RITA.  Dat  mean  my  fader — 'e  is  dead — [She  closes  her 
eyes,  says  something  under  her  breath  in  Latin,  crosses 
herself  and  then  resumes  brightly.] — ve  live  in  vone  leetle 
room  ver'  ver'  'igh  up — Calle  San  Polo  on-de-Zattere.  Vone 
morning  de  baba,  'e  feel  seeck — ve  'ad  not  anyt'ings  to  eat 
— so  I  mus'  leave  'im  qveek  an'  go  an'  sing  to  get  de  money. 
An'  I  sing  an'  sing,  but  no  vone  vill  give  nodings,  an'  de 
bad  boys  dey  laugh,  an'  t'row  de  dirt  at  me,  an'  vone  of 
dem,  'e  break  my  guitar!  An'  de  night  come,  an'  I  am  so 
tired  I  don't  know  vhere  I  go  or  vhat  I  do — an'  den  I  fin* 
myself  before  de  'Otel  Danieli.  An'  I  try  to  sing — but  no 


282  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

Tone  leesten,  an'  de  tears  dey  come  so  fas'  I  cannot  see — 
an'  jus'  den  I  'ear  a  voice  say  "  Don'  cry  please!  "  I  don' 
on'erstan'  de  Engleesh  den,  but  I  look  up  an'  a  leetle  girl, 
all  dress  in  vhite,  she  lean  ovair  de  balcony  an'  smile  at 
me  an'  drop  an  envelope  an'  in  de  envelope  vas — vhat 
you  t'ink? — a  bee-eautiful  bright  piece  of  gol' !  An'  de 
tears,  dey  'ave  an  en',  an'  I  smile  up  at  de  leetle  girl,  an' 
keess  my  'an'  an'  run  avay  an'  oh !  dat  night  I  cook  a — 'ow 
you  say? — a  great  beeg  deesh  of  nize,  fat,  dee-licious  fried 
eel!  Dat  suppair,  it  come  back  to  me  in  dreams  an'  I 
sect  again  on  de  broken  stool  an'  eat  an'  eat,  an'  de  baba, 
ae  make  de  joke  an'  oh!  my  Lord,  I  am  so  glad!  An'  den 
I  vake  up — an'  feel  de  pearls  aroun'  my  neck — an'  I  cry 
because  it  vas  so  long  ago!  [Slight  pause.'] 

TOM.      [Whispering.]      You  poor  litle  thing — 

RITA.     [Coming  back  to  herself.]     So  you  see  I  'ave  de 
.good  time,  too ! 

TOM.     [Whispering.]     You  poor  little  thing — 

[He  rises  and  comes  to  her. 

EITA.    Vhat  you  vUy? 

TOM.     [Passionately.]     Madam  Cavallini — Margherita — 

*- 

RITA.      [Shrinking   from    him   in    sudden   nervousness^  ' 
No — no — 

[Just  here  a  hand-organ  strikes  up  outside 
the  window,  playing  the  old  waltz — "  II 
Bacio/' 

TOM.     [Startled  and  furious.]     Drat  that  hurdy-gurdy! 
RITA.     [Slyly.]     I  t'ink  \jt  come  jus'  in  time! 

[ToM  goes  over  to  the  window  where  he  looks 
out.  Meanwhile  RITA  is  dancing  lightly 
and  gaily  about  the  room,  whistling  and 
snapping  her  -fingers  in  time  with  the 
waltz. 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  283 

TOM.  [Opening  the  window  and  calling  outside]  Hi  I 
[Pause.  The  waltz  continues.]  Hi — you  there!  Stop  that 
racket!  Stop  it  this  minute!  [The  waltz  breaks  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  phrase. ]  We  don't  allow  any  Italian  mounte 
banks  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  church  and  if  you  don't — 
[Suddenly  spluttering  with  rage.]  Take  that  monkey  off 
my  gate! 

RITA.  Monkee — ?  [She  runs  up  to  the  window,  and  calls 
gaily  outside]  Buon  giorno,  amico !  [ToM  stands  petri 
fied,  staring  at  her.]  €J*e-te#oro-  dt  vntt  scimmietta  arrete! 
Come  si  chiama?  [The  man  calls  back  something  in 
Italian]  Hein?  Tommaso — ?  [To  TOM.]  You  an'  de 
monkee  'ave  de  same  name!  [Calling  outside]  Quanti 
anni  ha?  [The  man  answers.  She  turns  to  TOM.]  'E  is 
two  year  ol'.  [Calling]  Ha  delle  pulci?  The  man 
answers]  Davvero?  [To  TOM.]  'E  use  to  'ave  de  flea., 
but  now  'e  eat  dem  all. 

TOM.     [Much 'annoyed]     Really;  ~i~ 

RITA.     [Suddenly  struck  with  an  idea  and  calling  outside 

with    mysterious    importance]      Aspettate    un    momenta 

voglio  farvived^r  qualche  costt!  [She  runs  across  the  room* 
picks  up  her  own  monkey  and  returns  to  the  window]  I 
make  acqvainted  Tommaso  vit'  Adelina ! 

TOM.  [Trying  to  stop  her]  Please,  madame — remem 
ber  my  parishioners — 

RITA.  [Holding  up  Adelina  at  the  window  and  calling 
outside]  Ecco — /  Tommaso,  questa  e  Adelina — siete  cam- 

patrioti!      [To  Adelina]      Sii  carina  e  saluta  Tommaso 

colla  tua  manina — [Waving  a  hand  for  her]  Brava — 
cosi!  [To  the  organ-grinder]  E  voi,  amico,  come  m 
chiamate?  [The  man  answers.  She  turns  again  to  ToM.J 
De  gentleman's  name  is  Meestaire  Francesco  Guerra. 
[Calling  outside]  Da  che  provincia  venite?  [To  TOM.} 
'E  come  from  Napoli.  [Calling]  Da  quanta  tempo  side- 


284  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

in  questo  paese?  [To  TOM,  as  the  man  answers.]  'E  been 
'ere  vone  year  an'  'e  vant  like  'ell  to  go  back!  [Calling.] 
Quanti  bambini  avete? 

TOM.  [Firmly.]  Madame,  you'll  catch  your  death  of 
cold  I 

RIA.  [Turning  to  TOM.]  'E  'ave  five  children  an'  an- 
odder  vone  come  nex'  mont' ! 

TOM.  [Angrily.]  Tell  him  to  go  away,  do  you  hear? 
Tell  him  to  go  away  immediately ! 

RITA.     [To  TOM.]     All  right — give  me  de  money — 

TOM.  [Protesting.]  You're  not  going  to — [Meekly  tak 
ing  out  his  purse.]  Will  ten  cents  do? 

RITA.  Qveeck — qveeck  before 'e  go  avay !  [She  snatches 
the  purse  out  of  his  hand  and  throws  it  out  the  window, 
calling  as  she  does  so:]  Ecco — guardate  bene  dove  cade — 
.comperate  qualche  cosa  pei  bambini!  Buona  fine  e  buon 
<principio,  amico!  [Waving  her  handkerchief.]  Arrive- 
dercil 

[She  smiles  and  kisses  her  hand  at  the  de 
parting  organ-grinder. 

TOM.  [Coldly.]  You  talk  to  that  man  as  if  you'd  known 
Mm  all  your  life! 

RITA.  [Turning  away  from  the  window  with  a  little  sigh 
and  shrug.]  Ah,  ve  bot'  make  de  music.  [Suddenly  seeing 
the  daguerreotype  on  the  desk.]  Who  is  dat  young  lady? 

TOM.     That's  my  mother.     [Slight  pause.] 

RITA.    You  let  me  look  at  'er — yes  ? 

TOM.     Of  course. 

[She  takes  up  the  picture  very  tenderly  and 
studies  it. 

HITA.     [Softly.]     Oh,  she  is  bee-eautiful ! 

TOM.  [Coming  up  and  looking  at  it  over  her  shoulder.] 
That  was  taken  before  she  was  married.  My  father  always 
Jiad  it  on  his  dressing-table. 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  285 

RITA.  [Always  gazing  at  the  picture.]  I  t'ink  you  look 
like  'er. 

TOM.  [Looking  at  it,  too.]  She  died  when  I  was  fifteen. 
It  was  my  first  winter  at  boarding  school.  She'd  come  up 
to  see  me  only  two  weeks  before  and  brought  me  this — 
[Picking  up  a  small,  worn  book  from  desk.] — my  little 
Testament.  I'd  expected  a  fruit-cake — you  can  imagine 
how  I  felt!  But  now — [He  brushes  it  lovingly.] — there's 
nothing  else  I  value  quite  so  much ! 

RITA.  [Whispering.]  She  look  like  she  'old  somet'ing  in 
'er  'eart — somet'ing  dat  make  'er  'appy — an'  dat  no  vone 
know — [Slight  pause.]  Per-aps — per'aps  it  is  de  fought 
dat  vone  day  she  'ave  a  son — like  you — 

[ToM  has  crossed  the  room  and  is  unlocking 
a  drawer  in  the  corner-cabinet. 

RITA.      [Under  her  breath,  to  the  picture.]      Forgive — 
[She  kisses  it,  then  puts  it  back  carefully  on  desk. 

TOM.  [Returning  with  a  little  box.]  There's  something 
here  I've  been  meaning  to  show  you — [He  is  opening  the 
box  and  fumbling  about  in  it.]  I  keep  it  in  this  box  with 
mother's  little  souvenirs — [He  has  taken  out  a  tiny,  shabby, 
little  shoe  and  put  it  on  the  desk  to  get  it  out  of  the  way.] 
Where  on  earth—  [Suddenly.]  Oh,  yes  ! 

[He  takes  out  a  small  package  done  up  care 
fully  in  tissue  paper. 

RITA.  [Picking  up  the  shoe  as  she  interrupts.]  An* 
dis— ? 

TOM.  [Glancing  at  it.]  That?  Oh,  I  believe  that's  my 
first  shoe.  [His  tone  softening  as  he  looks  at  it.]  Funny 
little  thing — look !  It's  all  worn  out  at  the  toes ! 

RITA.  [Half -laughing,  half-crying.]  Oh! — oh,  I  t'ink 
it  is  so  sveet!  [She  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

TOM.  [Taking  a  little  envelope  from  the  box  and  giving 
it  to  her.]  Here's  something  else,  too! 


286  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

RITA.  [Tremulously,  as  she  takes.']  Vhat — ?  oh,  vhat 
you — [Reading  slowly  from  the  envelope.']  "  Curl  saved 
from  my  son  Thom-as  Arm-strong's  first  'air-cut — June  seex 
— eighteen  'undred  an'  forty-vone — " 

TOM.  [Smiling.']  Let's  see — I  must  have  been  three 
years  old ! 

RITA.  [Who  has  taken  out  the  curl.']  Oh,  look!  De 
leetle  curl — it  is  so  soft — an'  yellow — jus'  like  gol' — 

TOM.  I  was  blonde  when  I  was  young — you'd  never 
think  it  now,  would  you? 

RITA.  [Half -laughing,  half -crying."}  An'  she  'ave  keep 
it  in  dis  envelope  an'  write  upon  it — "  Curl  from  my  son 
Thom-as  " — [She  cannot  go  on.'] 

TOM.  [Half  apologetic.]  She  did  that  because  she  was 
very  sentimental. 

RITA.  [Bursting  out.]  She  did  it  because  she  love  you 
such  a  much ! 

TOM.  Here's  what  I  really  wanted  to  show  you,  though. 
[He  is  unwrapping  the  little  package  he  has  been  holding 
in  his  hand.  RITA  kisses  the  curl  and  puts  it  back  in  its 
envelope  with  great  care.]  Now!  Look  at  those! 

RITA.     [Looking.]     A  necklace — earrings  — 

TOM.  They  were  father's  wedding  present!  [He  holds 
up  the  necklace — it  is  made  of  seed  pearls  and  has  a  locket.] 
There!  Isn't  that  pretty? 

RITA.     [Admiringly.]     Oh,  mos'  ver'  pretty! 

TOM.  There's  one  of  my  baby  pictures  in  the  locket. 
[Trying  to  open  locket.]  I  wonder  how — oh,  yes,  I  remem 
ber — you  press  the  back  and  then  it  opens !  There — ! 
[He  gives  her  the  locket.  She  takes  it  eagerly,  looks  at  it, 
glances  at  him,  then  breaks  out  into  irrepressible  laughter.] 
What's  the  matter? 

RITA.     [Trying  to  control  herself.]     You  are  so — so  fat! 

TOM.     [Frowning.]     Fat — ? 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  287 

RITA.     You  'ave  such  beeg  cheek — jus'  like  dis — 

[She    puffs    up    her   own    cheeks,    loses    her 
breath  and  starts  laughing  again. 

TOM.  [Severely.]  I  believe  I  was  considered  a  very 
beautiful  baby ! 

RITA.  You  are  de  mos'  funny  baby  I  ever  see  in  all  my 
life! 

TOM.  [Coldly.]  Oh,  very  well.  I'm  sorry  I  showed  it 
to  you!  I  might  have  known  that — 

RITA.     [Interrupting.]     Ah,  don't  be  angry. 

TOM.     [Not  turning.]     I'm  not  angry! 

RITA.  So?  Den  von'  you  turn  your  'ead — please? 
[Slight  pause.]  I  go  avay  to-morrow!  [Slight  pause.] 
Mebbe  I  never  come  back !  [Long  pause.  Then  dreamily.] 
I  t'ink  you  are  de  mos'  bee-eautiful  baby  in  de  whole  world. 

TOM.     [Loftily.]     No,  you  don't  either. 

RITA.  [Eagerly.]  So — si!  It  is  true!  Softly  to  the 
picture.]  So  good-bye,  leetle  fat  boy — good-bye — good 
bye!  [She  kisses  it  twice. 

TOM.     [Turning  and  seeing  her.]     Thank  you. 

RITA.  [Shaking  the  locket.]  Dat  vas  for  'im,  my  frien' 
— not  you!  [She  holds  out  the  necklace  for  him  to  take. 

TOM.  [Embarrassed.]  Er — don't  you  want  to  keep  him 
then? 

RITA.     Keep  'im? 

TOM.  Yes,  and  the  necklace,  too.  I  wish — I  mean  I 
hope  you  will. 

RITA.     But  no — I  cannot — 

TOM.     Please — just  as  a  favor  to  me! 

RITA.     It  is  your  moder's — 

TOM.     [Eagerly.]     I  know — that's  why! 

RITA.    But  she  vould  not  like  it — 

TOM.  [A  little  pompously.]  Of  course  I  realize  how 
you  feel  about  accepting  presents  of  jewelry  from  men, 


288  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

but  I  think  in  this  case — it's — er — quite  all  right!  [Her 
hand  has  gone  instinctively  to  her  string  of  pearls. ~\  What 
are  you  doing? 

RITA.     [Unclasping  her  own  pearls. ,]     I  make  for  it  de 

place !  [She  drops  her  string  of  pearls  on  the  desk. 

TOM.      [Heartily.']     Aha!  I  knew  you  would!      [Giving 

her  the   rest  of  the  package."]      Here!  take  the   earrings, 

too! 

RITA.  [With  tender  enthusiasm."]  Dio  mio!  dey  are  so 
bee-eautiful ! 

TOM.     Can  you  see  to  put  them  on? 

[By  this  time  the  room  is  filed  with  twilight 
shadows.  The  firelight  is  warm  and  mel 
low. 

RITA.  [Standing  on  a  footstool  before  the  mantel  and 
looking  into  the  glass.~\  Oh,  yes  I  can  see ! 

[She  takes  off  her  own  earrings,  lays  them 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  begins  putting 
on  his  earrings  and  necklace.  He  watches 
her. 

TOM.    You  know  how  it  clasps  ? 

RITA.  [Busy  with  the  necklace.']  Yes,  it  is  all  right — 
[Finishing  it,  and  turning  gaily  to  him.~\  Ecco!  Are  dey 
not  be-coming?  [He  does  not  answer.]  Vhy  you  look  at 
me  like  dat?  Vhat  you  t'ink  of — hein? 

TOM.     [Simply.]     I  was  just  thinking  how  mother  would 
have  loved  you. 
RITA.    Yes? 

TOM.    She  loved  everything  that  was  beautiful  and  sweet 
and  good.     And  then  your  music  would  have  interested  her 
so  much !     She  was  musical,  too,  you  know. 
RITA.     Is  dat  so? 

TOM.  [Continuing.]  Yes,  that's  why  I  kept  her  piano 
when  the  Worth  Street  house  was  sold.  I  put  it  over  there 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  289 

— so   when   I'm  writing  sermons   and   get  all  mixed-up,   I 
can  just  look  at  it  and  imagine  I'm  eight  years  old  again 
and  hear  her  dear  voice  singing  Annie  Laurie. 
RITA.     [Softly.]     "  An-nee  Laur-ee?  " 
TOM.      That   was   her   favorite   song.      [Hesitating.']      I 
wish — I  wish  you'd  sing  it  once  before  you  go. 
RITA.     I  tell  you  vhat — 7  play  an'  you  vill  sing! 
TOM.       [Embarrassed.]      But    I    can't — I    haven't    any 
voice — 

RITA.    Come — vhere  is  it — in  dis  book? 

[She  takes  up  one  of  the  bound  volumes  of 

music  lying  on  the  piano. 

TOM.  No — the  big  one  underneath — page  27 — but  really 
— it's  foolish — the  idea  of  my  trying  to — 

RITA.     [Finding  it.]     Ah!  Now  light  de  candle,  please. 
[She  puts  the  volume  on  the  rack. 

TOM.  [Lighting  a  long  paper  "  spill  "  from  fire  and  from 
it  lighting  the  candles  on  either  side  of  the  keyboard.]  It 
goes  up  to  E — that's  pretty  high,  you  know.  Of  course 
I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  weren't  a  professional.  I  always 
help  Mr.  Gates  with  the  choir,  but  they're  not  very  critical. 
[Taking  up  his  position  by  her  side.]  Give  me  the  note 
when  you  come  to  it. 

RITA.     [Playing  the  little  prelude.]     Is  dat  too  fas'? 
TOM.     A  little  bit— that's  better !     [She  strikes  his  note 
and  pauses,  glancing  up  at  him.    He  hesitates.]     Just  wait 
till   I  clear  my  throat — [He  coughs.]      It's   so  long  since 
I've  sung!     Now  I'm  ready — go  ahead! 

[He  sings,  she  te  conducting  "  him  with  her 

head  and  one  hand  whenever  possible. 
er  Mazwelton  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true." 


290  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

[Hastily  clearing  his  throat  and  speaking.]     This  is  where 
it  goes  up !     [Resuming  the  song.] 

"  Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee!  " 

RITA.     [Playing.]     Bravo!  Bravo!     You  sing  ver'  nize! 
TOM.     [Flattered.]     I'll  do  better  with  the  next  verse — 
see  if  I  don't !     [Singing.] 

"  Her  brow  is  like  the  snowdrift, 
Pier  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
Her—" 

[Just  here  Giles  open  the  door  at  back. 
GILES.     I  beg  pardon,  sir.     The  Deaconesses. 
TOM.     Get  rid  of  'em! 
GILES.    What,  sir? 
TOM.     [Impatiently.]     I  said  get  rid  of  'em! 

[GILES  bows  and  goes  out  closing  the  door. 

TOM  resumes  the  song. 
"  Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, 
And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'll  lay  me  down  and  dee!  " 

RITA.     [Softly,  not  looking  up  at  him.]     It  is  a  song  of 
love. 

TOM.     Yes.     But  I  never  knew  it  until  now.     Do  you 

know  why? 

RITA.    No.     Tell  me. 

TOM.     Because  I  never  knew  what  love  was — until  now. 

RITA.     [Sadly.]     An'  vhat  is  love— to  you? 

[She  plays  a  little,  idly,  as  she  watches  him. 
TOM.     [Leaning  on  the  piano.]     It's  finding  the  woman 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  291 

you  want  to  live  with  all  your  life.  The  woman  who'll  show 
you  the  right  way  and  follow  it  with  you,,  side  by  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  making  all  the  good  things  seem  a 
little  better,  and  all  the  hard  things — well,  not  quite  so 
hard.  It's  knowing  she'll  be  with  you  at  your  journey's 
end,  when  you're  old,  and  she's  old,  and  you  can  smile  and 
look  into  each  other's  eyes  and  say  "  We've  done  our  work 
together,  dear — and  I  think  we've  done  it  well." 

RITA.  [After  a  little  pause,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.]  Oh, 
my  frien',  dat  love,  it  is  for  some,  yes — but  it  is  not  for  me. 

TOM.     I  don't  understand — 

RITA.  [Wistfully  and  tenderly.]  For  me,  love  is  jus'  a 
leetle  light  in  all  dis  darkness,  a  leetle  varmt'  in  all  dis  col', 
a  leetle  flame  dat  burn — not  long,  an'  den  go  out.  A  star 
dat  come  an'  is  so  bee-eautiful  it  bring  beeg  tears,  an'  vhen 
ve  dry  dee  eyes  an'  look  again — de  star  is  gone.  I  t'ink 
it  is  to  be  a  leetle  'appier  togedder  den  ve  are  apart — vone 
meenute  to  lie  still  in  de  beloved's  arms — vone  leetle  meenute 
to  forget,  my  frien' — an'  dat  is  all. 

TOM.      [Brokenly.]      My  dear — 

[He  comes  swiftly  to  her  and  puts  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders. 

RITA.     [Rising.]     No — no — 

TOM.     [Whispering.]     My  dear — my  dear — 

[He  draws  her  to  him  and  holds  her  tightly 
in  his  arms. 

RITA.     Oh,  vhat  you  do? 

TOM.      [Pressing  her  to  him.]      I  love  you! 

RITA.     Don' — 

TOM.     [Interrupting.]     And  you  love  me.     Now  say  it — 

RITA.     [Piteously.]     No— 

TOM.     [Through  his  teeth.]     You  must. 

RITA.      [Throwing   her  arms  about   his  neck  with  deep 
abandon.]     All  right — I  love  you — /     Now  ve  are  alone — 


292  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

you  'ear — an'  dere  is  nodings  in  de  vorld  but  you  an'  me! 
Dis  is  our  time — our  leetle  meenute  dat  vill  never  come 
again — so  shut  your  eyes — an*  'old  me  close — an'  love — 
TOM.     But,  dear,  I— 
RITA.     [Putting  her  mouth  to  his.~]     Ssh! 

[A  long  kiss.  They  stand  motionless,  locked 
in  each  other's  arms.  And  just  here  from 
the  parish  house  next  door  comes  the 
sound  of  an  organ  and  men's  voices  sing 
ing  "  Ein  Feste  Burg  " — all  very  faint 
and  far  away.] 

RITA.     [At  last.]     Vhat  is  dat? 

TOM.     It's  just  the  choir — they're  practising  for  to-night 
— I  love  you. 

RITA.     [Closing  her  eyes."]     A-ah! 
TOM.    When  will  you  marry  me? 

[She  slowly  disengages  herself  from  him  and 

turns  away. 

RITA.     [Almost  to  herself.]     1  'ave  not  t'ink  de  en'  vould 
be  so  soon. 

TOM.     [Eagerly.]     When — please  tell  me  when? 
RITA.     Ask  me  anodder  time — no,  never  ask  me — it  is' 
jus'  not  possible — 

TOM.     But  what's  the  matter?     I  don't  understand! 
RITA.     [Defending  herself.]     Vhy  you  in  such  a  'urry? 
You  mus'  vait! 

TOM.     [Coming  nearer  her.]     I'd  wait  forever — if  there's 
any  hope. 

RITA.     [Retreating.]     Please  don'  come  near — 

TOM.     There  is  hope — isn't  there? 

RITA.     No — no — I  'ave  make  vone  beeg  meestake! 

TOM.     What—? 

RITA.     I  'ave  let  you  spik  vords  dat  I  mus'  never  'ear — 

TOM.    My  darling,  I — 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  293 

RITA.  I  t'ink  I  'ave  been  mad  for  jus'  vone  leetle  vhile, 
but  now — I  cannot  marry  you.  Good-bye. 

[She  goes  towards  door.     He  stops  her. 

TOM.     Why  not? 

RITA.     Oh,  let  me  go ! 

TOM.     Not  till  you've  told  me  why. 

RITA.  Can  you  not  on'erstan'  vhat  is  so  plain  an'  clear? 
Your  frien's — dey  know.  De  night  I  meet  you  you  'ave  see 
de  young  men  look  at  me — you  'ave  see  dere  vives  an* 
modders  frown  an'  turn  avay — 

TOM.    Rita — .'     [He  has  guessed  her  meaning.] 

RITA.  Dey  know  vhy  I  ca,n  never  marry  you — de  whole 
vorld  knows — [Her  voice  softening.]  An'  now  I  t'ink  if 
you  don'  min' — I  go  avay. 

[There  is  a  pause.    TOM  controls  himself. 

TOM.  [Very  tenderly.']  No,  my  dear — not  yet.  [He 
leads  her  to  settee  by  fire.]  I  think — I  think  you  have 
something  to  tell  me. 

RITA.     I  cannot — no — please  do  not  ask — 

TOM.  [Always  tender.]  I'm  not  going  to  ask — I'm  just 
going  to  sit  here  and  hold  your  hand  and  listen.  [He  takes 
her  hand.]  That's  what  I'm  here  for,  you  know — just  to 
help  people  when  they're  in  trouble  and  need  a  friend. 

RITA.     You  are  so  good! 

TOM.  [Quite  pale.]  No,  I'm  not — but  you'll  find  I'm 
very  sympathetic.  Why,  I  remember  one  day  last  week — 
Tuesday,  it  was,  that  a  little  tenement  girl  named  Mc- 
Dougal,  came  in  to  see  me.  We  sat  here  just  as  we're 
sitting  now  and  after  a  while  she  told  me  all  about  it.  She 
was  going  to  be  married  the  next  day  to  a  young  carpenter 
over  on  8th  Street — but  there  was  something  she  hadn't 
told  him — poor  child!  She  didn't  dare.  She'd  been — 
treated  badly  by  some  brute  of  man  when  she  was  only 
sixteen  years  old.  Of  course  he'd  left  her — and  she'd  tried 


294  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

to  put  together  the  pieces  of  her  life  and  go  on  with  her 
work — and  then  she  met  the  carpenter  and  fell  in  love 
:and  was  going  to  marry  him — and  at  the  last  moment  her 
conscience  began  bothering  her — so  she  came  to  me. 

RITA.     An' — vhat  you  tell  'er? 

TOM.  Oh,  I  didn't  say  much!  I  just  suggested  things 
here  and  there,  and  in  the  end — God  bless  her!  She  ma^e 
up  her  mind  to  do  the  right  thing. 

RITA.     De  right — ? 

TOM.    She  went  home  and  told  him  all  about  it. 

RITA.     An'  den — ? 

TOM.  [Cheerfully.']  He  was  a  decent  sort  of  fellow 
.and  he  loved  her,  so  of  course  he  understood — and — well,  I 
married  them  Wednesday  morning  and  now  they're  two 
of  the  happiest  people  in  New  York ! 

RITA.     An'  vould  you  feel  dat  vay,  too? 

TOM.    Me? 

RITA.  If  somevone  dat  you  love — [Quickly.]  no,  don't 
look  at  me! — [Resuming.]  If  somevone  dat  you  love  come 
-an'  say  "  I  am  not  good — I  mus'  tell  you  now  because  ve 
love  each  oder!  You  are  de  first  man  I  'ave  ever  love — 
you  are  de  first  man  I  'ave  ever  tol' !  " 

TOM.    Well? 

RITA.     Could  you  forgive  'er — Meestaire  Tom? 

TOM.  Forgive  her — ?  [Brokenly,  as  he  catches  her  in 
liis  arms.]  You  poor  little  child! 

RITA.  [Wailing.]  No — no — you  do  not  on'erstan' — it 
is  /  who  am  not  good — 

TOM.  [Soothing  her.]  There,  darling,  there!  Don't 
cry.  It's  all  right.  You've  been  fair  and  brave  and  honest. 
You've  told  me  and  I  forgive  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart! 

RITA.  [Still  sobbing.]  Oh — !  Oh  !  I  do  not  see  'ow  it 
is  possible — no,  I  do  not  see — I  don' — I  don' — 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  295 

TOM.  Why  not?  It  was  a  long  time  ago,  wasn't  it? 
When  you  were  poor  and  struggling  and  lonely.  You  didn't 
know  anything  about  the  world — how  could  you  ?  And  you 
had  to  live — hunger  and  misery  were  right  behind  you, 
driving  you  on — 

RITA.     Yes — oh,  yes — 

TOM.  But  you  mustn't  think  of  it  any  more !  You  must 
just  remember  how  afterwards  you  pulled  yourself  together 
and  raised  your  head  and  said  to  yourself,  "  I  may  have 
sinned,  but  that's  all  over — and  from  now  on  I'm  going  to  be 
a  good  woman !  I'm  going  to  turn  the  rest  of  my  life  into  a 
splendid,  beautiful  thing!  I  won't  stop  until  I  can  be 
proud  of  myself!"  And  oh,  my  dear — I'm  so  glad — I'm 
so  glad  that  you  can  be — now ! 

RITA.     An'  is  dat  vhy  you  can  forgive  me? 

TOM.     Is  what,  dear? 

RITA.     Because  it  'appen — so  long  ago? 

TOM.  [With  a  touch  of  his  profession.]  I  naturally 
believe  that  all  sins,  finished  and  truly  repented  of,  should 
be  forgiven  by  every  Christian  man  or  woman.  [Pause.] 

RITA.      [Gently  releasing  herself.]      I  see — I  see! 

[She  rises  and  walks  away. 

TOM.  [With  an  effort  to  shake  off  all  these  ugly  things.] 
And  now  that  everything's  cleared  up  between  us,  do  you 
know  what  we're  going  to  do? 

RITA.     No.     Tell  me. 

TOM.  [Smiling.]  Go  right  upstairs,  of  course,  and  an 
nounce  our  engagement  to  Aunt  Emma  and  Mr.  Van  Tuyl. 
Come  on! 

RITA.     [Instinctively.]     No — no — not  now — 

TOM.     What—? 

RITA.     Vait  a  leetle — vait  until  to-morrow — 

TOM.     !But  you're  sailing  to-morrow  ! 

RITA.     Yes —  dat  is  vhy — 


296  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

TOM.      [Smiling.]      Nonsense!     If  you  don't  look  out, 

I'll  begin  to  think  you're  ashamed  of  me !     Come  along ! 

[He  puts  his  arm  about  her  waist. 

RITA.  [Holding  back.]  No,  I  say — it  is  too  soon — I  am 
not  ready — ve  mus'  vait — 

TOM.    Wait?    What  for? 

RITA.    Mebbe — mebbe  dey  do  not  like  it  vhen  ve  tell  dem ! 

TOM.    Now  don't  you  bother  about  Aunt  Emma !    She — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Ah,  no!  I  do  not  bodder  about 
'er!  But—  [She  stops.] 

TOM.  It  surely  isn't  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  that's  worrying  you  ? 
Why,  he's  my  oldest  friend — and  father's  and  mother's, 
too.  He's  just  like  one  of  the  family!  Of  course  we  must 
tell  him  right  off! 

RITA.    Vhy  don'  you  let  me  tell  'im,? 

TOM.    What?        * 

RITA.  To-night — vhen  I  can  see  'im  all  alone! 
[Eagerly.]  Oh,  please — please  let  me  tell  'im! 

TOM.     [Puzzled.]     But  why?     What's  the  matter? 

RITA.     If  ve  tell  'im  now,  'e  vill  be  so  angry ! 

TOM.     Nonsense !    And  even  if  he  is,  we  don't  care ! 

RITA.     'E  vill  say  t'ings  about  me — oh  yes,  'e  vill! 

TOM.  But  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  you.  [She 
doesn't  answer.  He  repeats  in  a  different  tone.]  Rita,  he 
doesn't  know  anything  about  you,  does  he? 

RITA.     No — I  mean — not  ver'  much — 

TOM.     What—? 

RITA.  Jus'  a  leetle — I  tell  'im  a  leetle  vone  night  in 
Paris— 

TOM.     You  don't  mean — what  you've  told  me? 

RITA.    Yes,  an'  so  if  ve  go  upstairs  now  an' — 

TOM.  [Interrupting.]  But  you  said  just  a  minute  ago 
that  I  was  the  only  man  you'd  ever  told — because  I  was  the 
only  man  you'd  ever  loved! 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  297 

RITA.  [Frightened.]  I  'ave  forget — oh,  it  vas  two — 
t'ree  years  ago — 

TOM.  [Thinking.]  But  wait!  He's  talked  to  me  very 
openly  about  you — why,  only  last  Saturday  when  I  went  to 
see  him  about  the  new  gymnasium — 

RITA.     Vhat— ? 

TOM.  He  used  every  possible  argument — except  that 
one.  Why,  he  never  said  so  much  as  a  word  against — 

RITA.     I  know.     I — I  ask  'im  not  to. 

TOM.  [More  and  more  surprised.]  You — ?  But — but 
he  wouldn't  take  your  side  where  I'm  involved — why,  it's 
incredible ! 

RITA.     Oh,  yes,  'e  vould — you  do  not  know! 

TOM.     But  why? 

RITA.      [Fighting  for  time.]      Vhy — ? 

TOM.     Yes — there  must  be  a  reason. 

RITA.     Can  you  not  guess  ? 

TOM.     No. 

RITA.  It  is  because — oh,  long  ago,  you  on'erstan' — 'e 
was  foolish  enough  to  like  me — jus'  a  leetle — 

TOM.     What—? 

RITA.  [Quickly.]  It  was  not  my  fault — I  cannot  'elp  it 
vhen  peoples — 

TOM.     [Interrupting.]     "When  was  this? 

RITA.  Oh,  two — t'ree  year  ago!  I  did  my  bes'  to  stop 
'im — but  it  vas  not  easy,  I  tell  you  dat! 

TOM.  [Interrupting.]  Did  he  want  you  to  marry 
him? 

RITA.  [Trying  to  speak  lightly.]  No — no — it  was  nod- 
ings — nodings  at  all — 'e  jus'  like  to  sen'  flowers  an'  'ear 
me  sing  an' — 

TOM.  [Interrupting.]  How  long  did  his — attentions 
last? 

RITA.     I — I  dunno. 


298  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

TOM.      [Going  towards  her.]      You  don't  mean  he's  in 
love  with  you  still? 

RITA.     [With  abandon.]     Oh,  don't  talk  about  dat  any 
more !     Jus'  take  me  in  your  arms  an'  kiss  me  till — 

TOM.     [Interrupting.]     And  you  knew  he  felt  that  way 
— you  knew  it  all  this  time? 
RITA.     Yes — I  knew — 
TOM.     Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
RITA.     I  did  not  t'ink  you  vould — like  it. 
TOM.     Like  it!     Why,  it  was  all  right/    He  can't  help 
loving  you,  I  suppose.     There  isn't  anything  to  conceal — 
[Stopping  suddenly.]     Rita,  there  isn't  anything  to  conceal? 
RITA.     Vhat—? 

TOM.     Tell  me  there  isn't— tell  me— 
RITA.     [Retreating.]     I  don't  know  vhat  you  mean — 
TOM.     Quick — for  the  love  of  God ! 
RITA.     Don't  look  at  me — 
TOM.     Not  Mr.  Van  Tuyl?    Not  he—? 
RITA.     [Terrified.]     Please — oh,  please — 
TOM.     [With  a  sudden  cry.]     Oh — / 

RITA.      [Frantically.]      It  is  not  true!     I  say  it  is  not 
true! 

TOM.     What—? 

RITA.     Dere  'as  been  nodings — you  make  vone  terr'ble 
meestake — 

TOM.     How  do  I  know? 

RITA.     [Striking  her  breast.]     I  tell  you — /.' 
TOM.     But  you  kept  back  something  before — 
RITA.     No- 
ToM.     How  do  I  know  you're  not  doing  it  again? 
RITA.     No — I  am  not!     I  tell  you  I  am  not! 
TOM.        [Pulling     himself    together.]       Ssh — be     quiet! 
They'll  hear  you  upstairs.      [His  voice  shaking.]      Now 
we  must  be  calm,  both  of  us, — quite  calm  and  sensible.    We 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  299 

must  settle  this  matter  here,  once  and  for  all.     If  it's  true,, 

I I  beg  you — for  both  our  sakes — as  you  will  answer  on 

the  Day  of  Judgment— I  beg  you  to  tell  me  now.     [Pause.] 

RITA.  If  I  say  "  Yes,  it  is  true !  "  vould  you — vould  you 
again  forgive  me? 

TOM.     [With  a  cry.]     Ah—!  then  it  is— it  is— 
-RiiA.-   [Wildly.]     No— no— 

TOM.     Will  you  swear  it? 

RITA.     Yes — I  vill  swear. 

TOM.     Put  your  hand  here — on  my  mother's  Testament, 

RITA.      [Obeying  him.]     So? 

TOM.     And  look  me  in  the  eye  and  say  after  me— 

RITA.    Yes  ? 

TOM.  "  I  swear  there  has  been  nothing  wrong  between; 
Mr.  Van  Tuyl  and  me." 

RITA.      [Faintly.]      0  Madonna! 

TOM.     [Harshly.]     Swear  it! 

RITA.      [Opening  her  eyes.]     Vhat — ? 

TOM.     You  won't — ? 

RITA.  "  I  svear — dere  'as  been  " — vhat  you  say  ? — "  nod- 
ings  wrong  betveen — Meestaire  Van  Tuyl — an'  me — " 

[She  sways  a  little. 

TOM.  [With  a  sob  of  relief,  as  he  catches  her  in  Az> 
arms.]  Oh,  my  darling — forgive  me — I've  been  a  brute  to 
doubt  you— I'm— [Suddenly.]  What's  the  matter?  Rita— 
Rita!  [Her  head  has  fallen.  She  has  fainted.  He  carries 
her  over  to  the  settee,  lays  her  on  it,  runs  to  the  desk,  pours 
out  a  glass  of  water,  returns  with  it,  kneels  by  her  side  and 
tries  to  make  her  drink.]  My  poor  little  girl— there— it's  all 
right — I'm  never  going  to  bother  you  again — forgive  me — 
oh,  my  darling,  just  forgive  me  this  once — [She  is  gradually 
reviving  under  his  caresses  and  endearments.]  I  was  out 
of  my  head— I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying— please— 
please— [She  sits  up  dizzily.]  WTiat's  the  matter?  Aren't 


300  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

you  going  to  speak  to  me — ?     [She  rises  unsteadily  to  her 
feet.]     Rita—!  [He  takes  her  hand. 

RITA.     Let  me  go! 

TOM.     But,  darling,  just  listen  to  me  for  a  moment — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  I  vant  to  go  avay — you  don' 
believe  me — you  don'  love  me — 

TOM.  Yes,  I  do !  I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  the 
world — I  love  you  and  I'm  going  to  marry  you — 

RITA.  No — no — I  vill  never  marry  you  now — never — 
never  any  more — 

TOM.     Rita—! 

RITA.  [With  passion.]  Vhy  you  make  me  to  svear  dose 
t'ings?  Vhy  you  make  me — ? 

TOM.     Forgive  me,  dear — please — 

RITA.     I  vill  never  forgive  you.     Good-bye. 

TOM.    No,  wait ! 

[He  stops  her  at  door,  taking  both  her  hands. 

RITA.  I  say — good-bye !  [He  stares  into  her  face.  Her 
eyes  drop.]  Oh,  let  me  go  please!  I  mus'  return  to  de 
'otel — it  is  so  late — you  know  I  alvays  sleep  before  I  sing 
an' — [Suddenly.]  Vhat  for  you  look  at  me  like  dat? 

TOM.  [Trying  to  control  himself.]  I  believed  you  when 
you  swore  just  now — I  want  it  understood  that  I  believed 
you — 

RITA.     Veil? 

TOM.  So— if  you  don't  mind— I  think— I  think— 111 
ask  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  to  come  down  here — 

Rita.     Vhat—? 

TOM.     And  then  we'll  tell  him — we're  engaged. 

RITA.  [In  a  sudden  fright.]  Ah,  no — no — don'  do  dat 
— please — I  ask  you — jus'  for  me — vait  a  leetle  vhile — 

TOM.  [With  a  sudden  wildness,  pulling  the  bell-rope 
violently.]  Not  a  minute!  Not  a  second! 

RITA.     Please — 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  301 

TOM.     I  won't! 

RITA.     No — no — 

TOM.     Oh,  my  God — [Pause.     A  knock.]     Come  in! 
[Enter  GILES. 

GILES.     You  rang,  sir? 

TOM.      Yes.      Ask   Mr.    Van   Tuyl   to   step   down   here, 
please.     Tell  him  I'll  keep  him  only  a  moment.     / 

GILES.     Very  good,  sir. 

/  [Exit  GILES. 

RITA.     [As  the  door  closes.]     Ver'  veljXYou  vill  tell  him 
alone.     I  vill  not  stay. 

TOM.     [Before  door.]     You've  got  to. 

RITA.     Vhat — ? 

TOM.     I  won't  let  you  out. 

RITA.     Remembair  my  performance — 

TOM.  [Snapping  his  fingers.]  I  don't  give  that  for  your 
performance ! 

RITA.  'E  come— I  'ear  'im—  [In  desperation.]  O,  let  me 
go — let  me  go! 

TOM.  [As  if  struck.]  Rita — don't  tell  me  you're 
afraid —  / 

RITA.  Go  avay — let  me  see  'im  first — for  jus'  vone  leetle 
meenute — it  vill  be  all  right — 

TOM.     [His  suspicions  returning.]     I  won't — 
RITA.     [Wildly.]     Ver'  veil  den.     I  don'  care  ! 

[She  sits  down  at  the  piano  and  bursts  into 
a  Chopin  polonaise.  The  door  opens  and 
VAN  TUYL  appears. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Genially  as  he  enters.]  Ah—  !  Still  here? 
We  thought  you'd—  [Noticing  TOM'S  face.]  Why,  what's 
the  matter,  Tom? 

[RiTA  stops  playing  and  sits  at  the  piano, 

looking  at  the  two  men. 
TOM.     [Trying  to  speak  naturally.]     Nothing,  sir.     I 


302  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

asked  you  to  come  down  because — I  wanted  you  to  be  the 
first  to  know  of  my  good  luck. 

VAN  TUYL.     Good  luck? 

TOM.  Yes.  Madame  Cavallini  has  been  good  enough  to 
—  [Briefly.']  We're  engaged. 

VAN  TUYL.     [In  an  expressionless  voiced]     Engaged — ? 

TOM.  [Harshly.^  Yes — engaged — engaged  to  be  mar 
ried — this  lady  and  myself.  [Pause.'] 

VAN  TUYL.     [Calmly.']     My  dear  boy,  I  congratulate  you. 

TOM.      [Choking.]     What—? 

VAN  TUYL.  I  congratulate  you.  Madame  Cavallini 
stands  alone,  as  I  have  always  said.  And  while  I  confess 
I  am — a  bit  surprised,  I  am  flattered — [Turning  to  her  with 
a  bow.]  that  she  has  chosen  one  of  my  friends  and  country 
men  for  this — great  honor. 

TOM.  Then  it's  all  right — You  approve — you  give  us 
your  consent? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Turning  to  him.]     Consent? 

TOM.  Yes — for  the  parish,  I  mean — represented  by 
yourself  as  senior  warden  and  chairman  of  the  vestry. 

VAN  TUYL.  Most  certainly,  my  dear  boy.  You  know 
you  can  always  count  on  me  to  wish  you  every  happi-' 
ness. 

TOM.     [Baffled.]     Why,  you  talk  as  if  you  liked  it — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Not  understanding.]     I  don't  quite — 

TOM.  [Interrupting.]  All  I  can  say  is,  you  must  have 
changed  your  mind  since  Saturday. 

VAN  TUYL.     Since  Saturday? 

TOM.  Why,  don't  you  remember  warning  me  with  tears 
in  your  eyes  to  keep  away  from  this — this  lady  ? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     Ah,  that  was  Saturday ! 

TOM.  You  said  we  were  perfectly  unfitted  for  life  to 
gether — we  were  as  far  apart  as  the  poles  through  birth 
and  training  and  career — 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  303 

VAN  TUYL.  [Deprecating.]  Oh,  don't  bring  up  any 
foolish  statements  I — 

TOM.      [Interrupting.]     You  even  went  so  far  as  to — to 
mention  certain — flaws  in  Madame  Cavallini's  character. 
VAX  TUYL.     My  dear  Tom! 

TOM.  [Going  on.]  Her  temper — selfishness — an  ab 
sence  of  stability — 

VAN  TUYL.  Really,  my  boy,  you  mustn't  hold  me  to 
account  for — 

TOM.  [Interrupting.]  And  now,  sir,  I— I  want  to  ask 
you  here,  before  us  both,  if  you  were  absolutely  frank  on 
Saturday — 

VAN  TUYL.     What's  that? 

TOM.  [His  voice  almost  breaking.]  If  there  were  any 
argument  against  my — my  attachment  which  you  did  not 
see  fit  to  offer  at  the  time— 

VAN  TUYL.     Why,  Tom,  I  don't  understand— 
TOM.    If  there  was,  sir,  tell  it  now— tell  it  for  God's  sake 
— or  else  forever  after  hold  your  peace!     [Pause.] 

VAN  TUYL.  I  don't  see  why  you're  so  excited,  but  if  it 
gives  you  any  satisfaction  to  know  I  said  all  I  could  on 
Saturday — 

TOM.      [Quickly.]     You  held  nothing  back? 
VAN  TUYL.    Why,  no,  of  course  not !    What's  the  matter, 
Tom?  [ToM    turns    away    in    silent    agony.      RITA 

makes  a  sudden   movement.      VAN   TUYL 
suppresses  her  with  a  glance.   A  moment's 
pause.    TOM  faces  them  again,  controlling 
himself  with  difficulty. 
TOM.     Sit  down,  sir,  please. 
VAN  TUYL.     [Doing  so.]     Well? 

TOM.  [With  difficulty.]  I— I  want  to  apologize  before 
hand  for  what  I'm  going  to  say.  I  know  I'm  acting  outrage 
ously— but— I  can't  help  it!  [VAN  TUYL  makes  a  move- 


304  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

merit  towards  him.]  No,  wait!  You're  my  best  friend,  Mr. 
Van  Tuyl — [To  RITA.]  and  you're  the  woman  I  want  to 
make  my  wife.  So  I — I'm  sure  you'll  both  of  you  be  sym- 
pa+h^tic  and  make — allowances  for  me. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Heartily.']  Of  course,  my  boy,  of  course! 
TOM.  [Still  with  difficulty.]  Madame  Cavallini  has  been 
very  frank  and  open  with  me,  sir.  She's  just  told  me — 
about  certain  portions  of  her  career — and  of  course,  know 
ing  as  I  do,  how  hard  it  is  for  girls  when  they're  poor  and 
young — and  alone — why,  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  tell 
her  it's  all  right  and  blot  it  from  my  memory  forever — but 
— but — [He  pauses,  unable  to  go  on,  then  rises,  gripping  the 
edge  of  the  desk  with  both  hands  and  leaning  over  it,  hag 
gard  and  terrible.]  Before  I  can  do  that,  there's  one  thing 
I've  got  to  be  sure  of. 
VAN  TUYL.  Yes,  Tom? 

TOM.  It  seems — you've  been  an — an  admirer  of  hers  for 
some  time — [As  VAN  TUYL  glances  at  her  involuntarily."] 
For  God's  sake,  don't  look  at  her  now!  [Controlling  him 
self.]  And  what  I've  got — to  be  sure  of  is  that — there 
never  has  been  anything — you  know — between  you  two — 
VAN  TUYL.  What — ? 

TOM.  [Going  on  very  quickly.]  I've  asked  her  and  she's 
denied  it — and  I  believe  her — implicitly,  of  course — but  if 
— if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  deny^it,  too — oh,  merely  as  a 
matter  of  form! — why,  I- — I  shall  be  much  obliged.  Well? 
VAN  TUYL.  [After  a  slight  pause.]  There's  one  thing 
I'm  not  going  to  deny,  and  that  is  my  very  deep  and  very 
true  affection  for  Madame  Cavallini.  [Looking  at  her.]  It 
is  a  sentiment  none  the  less  deep  and  true  because  it  has 
lived  for  years  with  no  response  from  her,  and  I  am  proud 
of  my  hope  and  my  belief  that  it  will  continue  so  long  as 
I'm  alive  to  cherish  it.  [Turning  to  TOM.]  As  for  the 
rest  of  your  question,  Tom,  when  you're  yourself  again 


Act  II]  ROMANCE  305 

you'll  agree  with  me  that  it  deserves  no  answer.  I  don't 
know  how  such  thoughts  have  wormed  their  way  into  your 
mind,  but  one  thing  I  do  know,  and  that  is  the  time  will 
come  when  you  would  give  your  right  hand  never  to  have 
let  them  pass  your  lips.  Good-bye — [To  her.]  Good-bye, 
madame — I  offer  you  the  best  of  wishes — 

[He  is  turning  towards  the  door  when  Tom  stops  him. 

TOM.  [Seeing  his  hand.]  No,  wait — you  shan't  go  until 
I've  begged  your  pardon — I've  been  a  fool,  sir — a  perfect 
fool,  but  if  you  can,  I  want  you  to  forgive  me ! 

VAN  TUYL.  Don't  you  think,  my  boy,  you'd  better  ask 
Madame  Cavallini's  pardon  first? 

TOM.  [Turning  to  her.]  Rita,  darling — I  don't  know 
just  what  to  say — but  I  think  if  you  forgive  me  again — I 
can  promise  I'll  never — never — oh,  you  do  forgive  me,  dear, 
dtm't  you? 

RITA.  [Suddenly  pulling  herself  away.]  No — no — I 
cannot !  It  is  too  much — 

TOM.     What? 

RITA.  [Straightening  herself  up  and  looking  at  him.] 
I  love  you — I  mus'  spik  de  truth — 

VAN  TUYL.     Be  quiet! 

RITA.  [To  TOM.]  It  is  all  lies  vhat  ve  'ave  said— all 
lies — lies! 

TOM.     [Crying  aloud.]     No — no — 

RITA.     I  vas  'is  mistress  till  de  night  I  meet  you! 

TOM.     Not  Mr.  Van  Tuyl— not—  [He  chokes.] 

VAN  TUYL.     Tom,  listen  to  me  for  one  minute — 

TOM.      [Turning  to  him.]      Liar — thief — 

VAN  TUYL.     For  God's  sake,  Tom,  don't — 

TOM.     [With  a  cry.]     A-ah! 

[He  rushes  at  VAN  TUYL  to  strike  him  down, 
but  she  stands  before  him. 

RITA.     [Gasping.]   'E  lied  for  me — I  tell  you  'e  lied  for 


306  ROMANCE  [Act  II 

me —  [Pause.     TOM  stands  fghting  for  his  control. 

He  regains  it,  exhausted,  and  turns  to  the 

desk. 
TOM.      [In  a  whisper.']      Please  go — both  of  you. 

[He  stoops  to  pick  up  the  little  Testament 
which  has  dropped  to  the  floor,  brushes  it 
involuntarily,  and  puts  it  on  desk. 

VAN  TUYL.     Tom,  I'd  have  given  everything  I  have  in 
the  world  to  have  spared  you  this.     I  want  you  to  remember 
that — if  you  can.     [coming  towards  him.]     Tom,  I — 
TOM.    Don't! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Half  to  himself.]     Very  well.     Good-bye. 
[He  goes  out  quickly.     TOM  sits  down  slowly 

in  his  desk-chair. 

RITA.      [After  trying  once  or  twice  to  find  her  voice.] 
Meestaire — Meestaire  Tom — 

[He  shudders  at  the  sound.     She  goes  to  the 

mirror,  takes  off  his  mother's  earrings  and 

necklace,  kisses  locket,  and  lays  them  on 

mantelpiece.     Then  she  puts  on  her  coat, 

picks  up  her  muff  and  monkey  from  chair 

where  she  left  them  earlier  in  the  act. 

RITA.     [Softly  to  the  monkey.]     Basta — basta — poverina 

mia!      [She  stands  looking  at  TOM.     He  makes  no  sign. 

Then  at  last,  very  simply.]      T'ank  you  for  'aving  loved 

me. 

[She  drops  her  veil  and  goes  out.  As  he 
hears  the  door  close,  he  has  a  few  seconds 
of  gasping  for  breath.  Then,  burying  his 
face  in  his  arms,  he  breaks  into  silent 
convulsive  sobs.  From  far  away  comes 
the  sound  of  the  little  hand-organ.  It  zV 
still  playing  the  old  "waltz. 
The  Curtain  Falls. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  307 

ACT  III 

[SCENE:  MME.  CAVALLINI'S  apartment  at  the  Brevoort 
House,  that  night,  after  the  performance.  At  the  left 
are  doors  leading  to  the  hall.  At  the  right  are  two 
long  windows,  with  a  tall  old-fashioned  gilt  mirror  and 
low  consol  table  between.  At  the  back — towards  right 
— is  an  arch  leading  to  the  bedroom,  covered  with 
drawn  portieres.  At  left,  a  smaller  door.  Opposite 
the  windows  are  the  fireplace  and  mantel.  A  fire  is 
burning.  A  grand  piano  is  covered  with  a  confusion 
of  music,  hats,  clothes,  etc.  Towards  the  centre  are 
a  couch  and  a  table.  The  couch  is  strewn  with  var 
ious  clothes,  wigs,  costumes,  etc.  Between  the  two 
windows  is  a  perch  on  which  sit,  side  by  side,  two 
stately  scarlet  macaws.  Near  the  fire  is  the  monkey's 
cradle — a  charming  cloud  of  lace  and  pale  blue  satin. 
There  are  several  open  trunks  lying  about  the  room 
in  various  stages  of  completed  packing.  Clothes,  of 
all  descriptions,  are  strewn  about  in  the  greatest  dis 
order  everywhere.  The  whole  effect  of  the  room  is 
luxurious,  yet  filled  with  confusion  and  a  sense  of 
Bohemian  life. 

When  the  curtain  goes  up,  it  is  night.  The  gas  is 
lit.  Before  the  fire  squats  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI — a  fat, 
untidy  old  Italian  woman  with  a  moustache  and  long 
earrings,  dressed  very  gaily,  her  skirts  pinned  up,  a 
pair  of  old  soiled  pink  satin  slippers  on  her  feet.  She 
is  telling  her  fortune  with  a  pack  of  greasy  cards, 
stopping  every  now  and  then  to  turn  and  stir  two 
saucepans  which  are  cooking  over  the  fire.] 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [To  herself.]      0  Dio  mio!     Non 
imparta — riproviamo — /      [She  gives  the  saucepan  a  stir^ 


308  EOMANCE  [Act  III 

shuffles,  and  deals.]  Picche!  II  nove  di  fiori!  Cosa  ci 
lianno  queste  bestie  di  carte! — Ah!  II  fante  di  cuori!  Forse 
vuol  dire  un*  amante — chi  sa?  II  died  di  quadri — / 
A-ha-he!  Posso  ancora  esser  ricca — [She  laughs  to  herself. 
There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.]  Avanti! 

[ADOLPH  comes  in.  He  is  an  old  German  waiter  carry 
ing  a  tray  with  plates,  napkins,  glasses,  bowl  of  salad, 
etc.]  You  gotta  da  garlic — yes? 

ADOLPH.     [Putting  down  tray.]     Two  liddle  beeces. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Cut  dem  ver'  small  an'  put  dem  in 
vhen  you  maka  da  salad. 

ADOLPH.  Madame,  she  vill  be  hungry  when  she  back 
comes  from  de  opera. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  She  eata  nodings  before  she  go — 
she  dreenka  a  leetle  vine  an'  coffee,  dat  is  all.  So  I  come 
back  qveeck  an*  maka  myself  da  macaroni  wid  da  tomat* 
sauce — she  alvays  lika  dat! 

ADOLPH.  Ach!  no  great  artiste  vill  eat  pefore  she  sing! 
Do  I  not  know?  Have  I  not  de  first  tenor  of  de  Royal 
Court  Opera  of  de  city  of  Steichenblatter  been?  Do  I  not 
remember  how  I  feel  vhen — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Gloomily  interrupting  him.]  You 
'ave  forgetta  da  cheese. 

ADOLPH.     [Crushed.]     Du  lieber  Gott! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [With  a  retrospective  smile.]  Ah, 
vhen  I  was  prima  donna  at  Bologna  an'  maka  my  debut  as 
Linda  di  Chamonix  in  da  great,  da  bee-eautiful,  da  gala 
performance — an'  'is — 'ow  you  say — 'is  eccellenza  da  duca 
di  Modena,  'e  stan*  an*  clappa  de  'an's  an'  say  so  loud — 
"Bravo,  Vannucci!  Bravo!  Bravissimo!" — 

ADOLPH.     [Interrupting.']     Your  sauce,  it  burn. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Rushing  to  fire.]  Madonna  santa 
proteggeteci! 

[She  stirs  the  sauce  vigorously. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  309 

ADOLPH.  [Sadly  as  he  mixes  salad.']  Ach — so!  De 
good  old  days — dey  are  all  gone ! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Stirring,]  Da  opera  now — vhat 
is  ett?  Vone  beeg  noise! 

ADOLPH.     Dis  Faust  an'  Mignon — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Covering  her  ears.]     Impossibili! 

ADOLPH.     Schreklich — / 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Orribili! 

ADOLPH.     Ungeheuer — / 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  Ma  La  Fa- 
vorita! 

ADOLPH.    Der  Freischutz! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.    Bellissima! 

ADOLPH.  Wunderschon! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Celestiale! 

ADOLPH.     Kolossal — / 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Sighing.]  But  ah !  who  now  gotta 
da  voice  to  seeng  dem! 

ADOLPH.     [Scornfully.]     Mario — ?     Bah! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Loftily.]     Grisi — ?     Pouf! 

ADOLPH.     Giuglini — ?     Etn  schwein — / 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.    La  Patti — ?    Un  pulce — / 

ADOLPH.     La  Cavallini — ? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Ah,  si — la  Cavallini! 

ADOLPH.  [Patronizingly.]  She  'ave  a  leedle  some- 
t'ing— 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  You  bet  my  life  she  'ave!  Ah! 
sometime  vhen  I  stan'  in  de  veengs  an'  'old  'er  shawl  an' 
leesten — I  t'ink  it  is  myself  again  come  back  from  long 
ago! 

ADOLPH.  Ach,  Gott!  I,  too,  haf  treams!  An*  vhen  I 
my  half  dollar  pay  an'  de  stairs  up  climb  an'  de  orchestra 
begin — -I  shut  my  eye  an'  yet  vonce  more  again  I  am 
in  Steichenblatter — 


510  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Catching  his  enthusiasm.]  Si — 
si!  Da  box  vhere  seeta  da  duca  di  Modena — 

ADOLPH.     I  see  again  the  tears  upon  de  ladies'  cheeks — 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Da  "  Bravos !  "  of  da  bee-eautiful 
young  men — 

ADOLPH.     The  opera — it  is  Norma — I  am  Pollio — 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.      [Clasping  her  hands.]     Ah  Nor 
ma — / 

ADOLPH.  [With  the  bottle  of  oilin  one  hand.]  De  great 
duet — act  dree — it  come  at  last! 

[He  sings  softly  in  German. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Rising  from  fire  with  spoon  still 
in  hand.]  Piu  forte!  Cosi!  Oral  Crescendo! 

[They  sing  the  duet  together  in  the  very  old- 
fashioned  operatic  way,  tremendously  in 
earnest.     At   the  closing  high  note  they 
fling  themselves  violently  in  one  another's 
arms.     Just  here  a  small  bellboy  in  but 
tons,  enters  from  right,  whistling  between 
his  teeth.     He   carries  a  card-tray,  and 
stops,  amazed  at  the  sight. 
THE  BELLBOY.     Where's  the  madam? 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Kneeling  by  the  fire  and  stirring.] 
She  'ave  not  yet  return. 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Confidentially.]  Say,  wotter  ye  t'ink 
she  do  if  I  asked  her  t'  put  her  name  in  me  autograph 
album? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Your — vhat? 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Proudly.]  Me  autograph  album! 
[Taking  it  from  breast.]  I  got  Sam  McGuire,  the  famous 
murderer,  an'  Edwin  Booth,  the  celebrated  actor,  not  t' 
mention  the  lady  author  o'  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  an' — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Impatiently.]  Go  vay!  Govay! 
Vhat  for  you  come  an'  talk  so  much  an' — 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  311 

THE  BELLBOY.     Hold  yer  horses,  old  lady!     'Tain't  no 

use  gettin'  mad!      There's   a  gent  downstairs   a-callin'   on 

the  madam — see  ?  [He  holds  out  the  salver  with  card. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.      [Irritably.]      Giva  me  da  card — 

qveeck,  leetle  animal !     Qveeck,  I  say ! 

THE  BELLBOY.  Quit  callin'  me  names,  ye  big  Eyetalian 
rag-bag,  or  I'll — 

ADOLPH.  [Interrupting.]  Ssh!  Keep  still!  I  vip  you 
good!  [The  bellboy  hands  her  salver. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Reading  card.  A-ah!  Itismilor! 
'E  'ave  come  back!  Santi  benedetti!  [To  the  bellboy.] 
Go — breenga  'im  in!  [To  ADOLPH.]  An*  leesten,  my 
frien',  a  bottle  of  champagne ! 

ADOLPH.      [With  tray,  at  door.]      Champagne? 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Joyously.']     You  bet  my  life !    Da 
besta  you  got ! 

[ADOLPH  goes  out.  She  rises,  puts  card  on 
piano,  and  begins  unpinning  her  skirts, 
etc.  The  bellboy  profits  by  this  to  steal 
some  grapes  and  a  cake  from  the  table. 
She  turns  and  sees  him. 
Ah,  demonietto! 

[She  rushes  at  him  with  hand  upraised. 
THE  BELLBOY.     Rag-bag! 

[He  escapes.  She  hastily  attempts  to  tidy 
the  room,  closes  a  couple  of  trunks,  etc. 
Then,  singing  an  incredible  cadenza,  she 
puts  on  a  scarf,  sticks  an  ostrich  feather 
in  her  hair  and  is  admiring  the  result 
in  the  long  mirror,  when  there  is  a  knock 
at  the  door  to  the  hall. 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [With  a  long  trill.]  Avanti! 

[The  door  opens  and  VAN  TUYL  appears. 
VAN  TUYL.     [Entering.]     Well,  signora!     I  haven't  seen 


312  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

you  for  some  time,  have  I?  You're  younger  and  more 
beautiful  than  ever! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Shaking  hands.]  Ah,  milor — you 
maka  da  joke  as  alvays !  But  I  don'  care — I  am  so  full 
of  joy  because  you  'ave  come! 

VAN  TUYL.  Thanks  very  much.  [Looking  about.] 
How's  the  menagerie?  [To  the  parrots.]  Remember  me, 
old  lady — eh? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Dey  are  full  of  love  for  milor — 
ecco!  See!  JManrico,  'e  visha  to  keess  'is  'and! 

VAN  TUYL.  Bite  it,  you  mean.  [Going  to  fire.]  Where's 
Adelina — ?  [Seeing  the  cradle.]  Oh! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     She  'ave  jus'  eata  vone  greata  beeg 

• 
suppair. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Looking  into  cradle.]  Six  olives — straw 
berry  jam — a  few  hothouse  grapes — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Rapturously.]  An'  da  cupa  of 
chocolate !  Ah,  milor — 'e  'ave  recolleck  ev'ryt'ings  ! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Seeing  the  saucepans  by  the  fire.]  What's 
that  you're  cooking — not  your  famous  macaroni? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  It  is  for  madame.  She  eata  nod- 
ings  alia  da  day.  An'  she  looka  so  vhite  an'  seeck — ah, 
Madonna!  I  gotta  vone  great  beeg  fear! 

VAN  TUYL.     How  did  she  get  through  the  performance? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     Milor  vas  not  dere — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     No. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     'E  'ave  not  'card — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     No. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Volubly.]  Ah,  she  maka — vhat 
you  say? — un  triomfo  enorme!  It  maka  me  t'ink  of  dat 
so  splendid  night  I  sing  Lucrezia  Borgia  an'  'is  Excellenza 
da  duca  di  Modena,  'e — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Interrupting.]  Yes,  I  remember.  [Look 
ing  at  his  watch.]  Madame  is  late. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  313 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  She  say  addio  to  Signer  Strakosch 
an'  de  oder  artistes  an'  receive  da  present — 

VAN  TUYL.     Really? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Nodding.]  Da  pin  vid  da  big 
rubee,  an'  de  bracelet  vid  many  pearl,  an'  ah !  Madonna ! — 
da  di'mon'  crown  from  alia  da  signora  of  New  York ! 

[During  the  following  she  works  at  the  pack 
ing  and  finally  finishes  and  shuts  one  more 
of  the  trunks. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Not  paying  much  attention.]  It's  true — 
the  city's  gone  quite  mad. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Dio  mio!  Vhen  I  recolleck  dat 
tomorrow  ve  go  so  far  avay  from  dis  country  an'  milor 
an'  all  da  mon' — it  maka  my  'eart  feel  jus'  like  'e  vill 
break ! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     Poor  little  heart! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.    An'  vhen  do  ve  see  milor  again? 

VAN  TUYL.  Soon,,  I  hope.  But  in  the  interval,  signora, 
I  want  you  to  enjoy  yourself,  so — 

[Putting  hts  hand  in  his  pocket  and  taking 

out  his  wallet. 

SIGORA  VANNUCCI.     [Sidling  up  to  him.]     Oh,  milor — ! 
VAN  TUYL.     [Selecting  a  bill.]     So  here's  a  little  some 
thing  just  to  remind  you  that — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Interrupting.]  Oh,  no,  milor — 
you  already  giva  me  so  much — no — no — it  is  imposs'— 

[She  holds  out  her  hand  greedily. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Putting  bill  in  hand.]  Nonsense!  As 
friend  to  friend !  There !  You  can  change  it  when  you 
get  to  Naples. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Enthusiastically,  as  she  puts  bill 
in  stocking.]  Ah,  milor — 'e  is  so  good !  Jus'  like  'is  Ex- 
cellenza  da  duca  di  Modena — 


314,  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

VAN  TUYL.  [Interrupting.]  I  believe  you.  [Suddenly.] 
Wait!  What's  that? 

[There  is  an  instant's  pause.    From  far  away 
come  the  distant  strains  of  "  Yankee  Doo 
dle/3  played   on   a   brass   band.     During 
the  following  scene  the  music  grows  near- 
erf  and  beneath  it  can  be  heard  the  vague, 
confused  noise  of  many  people  shouting. 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.      [After  listening  a  moment.]      Da 
music — •  [She  goes  quickly  to  window,  opens  it,  steps 

out  on  balcony  and  looks  up  street. 
VAN  TUYL.     [Following  her.]    A  brass  band ! 

[He  stands  by  window. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [As  the  music  grows  louder.] 
Santi  buonissimi!  Vhat  is  dat  dey  play? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Opening  the  window  wide  and  joining  her 
on  the  balcony].  "Yankee  Doodle!" 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Suddenly.]  Ah!  Dey  come! 
Dey  come! 

VAN  TUYL.  [As  the  sound  increases.]  Where?  [He 
leans  out,  too].  Fourteenth  Street!  That's  en  route  from 
the  Academy — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Who  grows  more  and  more  ex 
cited  as  the  scene  proceeds.]  Ecco!  See — ! 

VAN  TUYL.  Torches — !  By  Jove,  it's  a  regular  Re 
publican  rally! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  More  peoples — an'  more — an'  more 
an'  more  dey  come! 

VAN  TUYL.  Every  fellow  with  his  hat  off — [Shivering.] 
and  zero  weather,  too. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Pointing.]  See — de  peoples  in 
de  vindows !  Dat  so  fat  man — vhat  is  dat  'e  say  ? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Raising  his  voice  above  the  uproar.]  I 
can't  hear!  [The  music  stops. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  315 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [At  a  loud  roar  of  "Bravo!" 
"  Cavallini!  "  "Hurrah!"  etc.}  Ah!  She  come— she 
come!  [She  claps  her  hands  and  leans  far  out. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Leaning  out,  too.]     Where? 
SIGNORA    VANNUCCI.       [Pointing.]      Dere — do   you    not 
see  da  carriage? 

VAN  TUYL.  But  where's  the  coachman — where  are  the 
horses — ?  Good  Lord!  if  those  young  fools  aren't  drag 
ging  it  themselves ! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Ah!  vhen  I  was  prima  donna  at 
Bologna  an'  singa  Lucrezia  Borgia  for — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Interrupting  and  chuckling  to  himself.'] 
In  evening  dress — without  any  overcoats!  By  Jove,  what 
a  lark! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Suddenly.}  Ah!  Eccola  laf 
Bellaza  mia!  Come  e  bella!  You  see  'er — yes? 

VAN   TUYL.      No — that  tall  young  devil's  in  the  way! 
[Suddenly.]   Ah,  there  she  is!      [To  himself.]      By  Jove! 
By — Jove!        [He  stares  spell-bound.    The  band,  now  much 
nearer,  slowly  begins  "  Way  Down  Upon 
the  Swaunee  Ribber."     The  torchlight  il 
lumines  the  two  figures  on   the   balcony. 
The  procession  now  is  almost  underneath 
them.     The  music  stops.     There  is  a  burst 
of  cheering.     SIGNORA   VANNUCCI  waves 
her  handkerchief  wildly. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Evivva!  Evivva!  Brava  Cavallini! 
Brava  regina!  Ecco  mi  alia  finestra!  Guarda  alia  tua 
povera  vecchia  Fannucci —  [In  delight.}  Ah!  Ecco! 
Cosi  va  bene!  [She  laughs  and  waves.  To  VAN  TUYL.] 
She  look  up — she  see  us !  • 

[Fan  Tuyl  takes  off  his  hat  and  bows  in  a 
very  stately  way.  Suddenly  the  glitter  of 
a  rocket  is  seen  in  the  street  outside. 


316  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Ehi.'  Ehi!  Cosa  fate?  [An 
other  rocket  goes  off  and  the  red  glow  of  Bengal  light  is 
seen  from  the  street  below,  lasting  for  a  moment  and  then 
dying  away.]  Ah!  Maledetti! 

[She  clutches  VAN  TUYL  and  crosses  herself. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Reassuringly.]  It's  all  right — those  fel 
lows  in  the  corner  are  setting  off  some  fireworks,  that's 
all. 

[There  is  a  great  cheer  from  the  crowd. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  She  come — she  descend  from  da 
carriage — Look !  look  'ow  da  young  men  kissa  'er  'and ! 
[There  are  more  rockets  and  the  band  begins  to  play 
"  Kennst  Du  Das  Land."  From  below  is  heard  a  volley 
of  shouts  and  cheers  and  laughter.]  Dere !  Up-a  da  step ! 
So — !  At  las'  she  is  inside —  [Coming  back  quickly  into 
the  room.]  Qveeck!  Shuta  da  vindow — dis  room  is  all 
dam'  col' — [He  steps  inside  and  closes  the  window.  The 
fireworks  are  still  seen,  but  the  music  and  crowd  are  heard 
more  faintly.  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI  bustles  about,  putting  a 
new  log  on  the  fire,  adjusting  furniture,  etc.]  So !  Dere ! 
Ecco!  Dat  is  right!  Vill  milor  'elp  me  vid  dis  chair — ? 
an'  da  table — more  near  da  fire — Lika  dat!  [Suddenly.] 
Madonna  mia!  I  'ave  forget — [She  quickly  pulls  back 
the  portieres  over  arch  at  back,  revealing  the  bedroom. 
There  is  a  canopied  bed,  turned  down,  with  elaborate  pil 
lows,  etc.  A  small  lamp  burns  on  its  head,  casting  a  warm 
glow.  On  the  bed  is  a  nightgown  case,  heavily  embroid 
ered.  A  luxurious  negligee  of  fur  and  velvet  lies  across 
a  near-by  chair,  with  a  pair  of  slippers  beneath.  SIGNORA 
VANNUCCI  picks  them  up  and  comes  back  immediately  into 
the  sitting-room.  She  hangs  the  robe  on  a  chair  close  to 
fire  and  puts  the  slippers  where  they,  too,  will  warm] 
Milor,  'e  recolleck  dis  robe — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Helping  her  arrange  it.]     Millefleurs! 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  317 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Laughing.]  Ah,  vhat  good  time 
milor  'e  giva  us  dere !  I  vish  dat — 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  and  before 
anyone  can  answer  it  is  opened,  and 
ADOLPH  appears  hurriedly,  carrying  a 
champagne  bucket. 

ADOLPH.  [Excitedly.]  You  haf  hear — ?  You  haf  seen? 
Look  dere !  [He  points  to  fireworks  outside]  Mein  Gott 
im  Himmel!  [He  puts  down  the  campagne  by  the  table. 
The  bellboy  bursts  in  excitedly.] 

THE  BELLBOY.  [With  a  long  whistle]  Whew — !  Holy 
cats !  This  town  ain't  seen  the  like  since  the  Prince  o' 
Wales  was  here!  [There  is  an  especially  brilliant  effect 
of  fireworks  outside]  Jee-rusalem — !  [He  rushes  to  the 
window.  The  Head  Waiter,  two  subordinates  and  two  hall 
boys  in  uniform  come  in,  one  after  the  other,  talking  among 
themselves  and  laden  with  "  floral  offerings  "  of  all  kinds. 
There  are  wreaths,  "  set-pieces "  in  the  form  of  harps, 
hearts,  etc.  One  large  bird  with  "  Nightingale  "  worked 
in  white  roses  upon  red,  etc.  Some  have  the  American  and 
Italian  colors  attached,  others  have  sentiments  such  as 
"  Say  Not  Good-bye/'  "  Our  Mignon,"  "  Addio,"  etc] 

ONE  WAITER.     Ouvrez  la  porte! 

ANOTHER  WAITER.  Oui — ne  voyez-vous  pas  que  je  suis 
occupe — ? 

HEAD  WAITER.     Ou  faut-il  poser  ces  engins-ci,  madame? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Sur  le  piano — bien!  c'est  gal  Dis- 
donc — et  ce  que  tu  as  sur  la  table —  [To  VAN  TUYL.] 
Are  dey  not  bee-eautiful ?  Santi  benissimi!  [To  the  wait 
ers].  Fa  doucement,  idiot — /  Tu  vas  I'abimer — /  Pen- 
chez  celle-la  a  cote  de  la  chaise — 

HEAD  WAITER.  Vite!  Vite!  Espece  d'un  escargot — / 
Madame  va  venir — toute  de  suite!  Ah,  la  voila — /  Comme 
elle  est  ravissante — / 


318  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

M.  BAPTISTE.  [Outside]  Ah,  madame,  nous  sommes  in- 
finiment  heureux  de  prendre  part  dans  le  triomphe  d'une 
artiste  si  celebre — 

[As  he  has  spoken,  he  has  entered  and  stands 
respectfully  on  one  side  of  the  door,  bow 
ing   and   rubbing   his   hands.     He   is   the 
hotel  proprietor  and  wears  a  frock-coat. 
RITA.     [Entering.]     Merci,  monsieur — merci  mille  fois — 
vous  etes   trop   aimable —      [To   SIGNORA   VANNUCCI  in  a 
whisper.]      Per  I'amor  di  Dio,  mettili  fuoriJ     Non  posso 
piu —      [She  is  in  gorgeous  evening  dress,  glittering  with 
jewels.     On  her  head  is  a  crown  of  diamonds.     Her  cloak 
is  purple.     In  one  hand  she  carries  a  wreath  of  laurel,  tied 
with  a  golden  ribbon.     With  the  other  she  holds  a  great 
armful  of  white  roses.     She  is  very  pale  and  exquisitely 
gracious.     The  music  comes  to  an  end  just  after  her  en 
trance.      There   is   a   renewed   burst   of  cheering  outside.] 
Us  sont  toujours  la?    Ecoutez — qu'est-ce  qu'ils  disent? 

M.  BAPTISTE.  C'est  tres  confus,  madame —  [To  the 
bellboy.]  Eh,  you!  Dose  peoples  out  dere,  vhat  is  it  dey 
say? 

THE  BELLBOY.     [Shrilly.]     They're  yellin'  fer  a  speech ! 
[There     are     indeed     heard    loud    cries     of 
"  Speech!  "    "  Just  a  little  one!  "  "  Come 
on!"  etc. 

M.  BAPTISTE.  [To  RITA.]  Si  madame  etait  asses  aima 
ble  de  leur  addresser — 

RITA.  [Drawing  back.]  Ah,  non — non — cfest  impos 
sible — 

M.  BAPTISTE.     Trois  paroles,  vous  saves — 
RITA.     V raiment,  monsieur — je  suis  si  fatiguee — 
THE  BELLBOY.     [Yelling  inside]     They  won't  go  way! 
M.  BAPTISTE.    Je  vous  prie,  madame — pour  I'honneur  de 
I'hotel— 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  319 

RITA.  [In  a  flash  of  petulance.]  Non.  Je  refuse — en- 
tendez  vous?  Je  refuse  absolument!  [Turning  away.] 
All,  par  example — c'est  trop  fort! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Coaxingly.]     Ti  prego,  cara. 

RITA.  [Stamping  her  foot.]  Dio  bono!  Per  che  cosa 
mi  prendete?  [There  is  a  renewed  outburst  from  the  crowd. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Speaking  for  the  first  time.]  Madame, 
your  public's  calling  you. 

RITA.     Vhat— ? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Simply.]     You  must  obey.     [Pause.] 

RITA.     [In  a  low  tone.]     Open  de  vindow. 

[The  bellboy  does  so,  the  noise  is  heard  very 
much  more  clearly.  She  lays  down  her 
wreath,  then  goes  slowly  to  the  window. 

M.  BAPTISTE.     Ah,  que  madame  est  bonne — 

[RiTA  steps  out  on  balcony.  There  is  a  great 
cheer  as  she  appears,  the  red  Bengal 
light,  blazing  up  again,  falls  fitfully  upon 
her  figure.  There  is  the  hiss  and  glare 
of  many  rockets  set  off  simultaneously. 
The  band  plays  a  fanfare — the  general 
effect  is  a  blare  of  light,  noise  and  splen 
dor.  She  stands  in  the  midst  of  it  all, — 
bowing,  smiling  and  holding  up  her  hand 
for  silence.  In  the  room  behind  her 
everyone  is  applauding.  BAPTISTE  utters 
an  occasional  "  Bravo! "  and  SIGNORA 
VANNUCCI  ostentatiously  wipes  away  her 
tears.  Then  quite  suddenly  there  is  a 
silence.  A  man's  voice  is  heard  yelling 
"  If  you  don't  feel  like  talhin' — sing!  " 
There  is  a  burst  of  laughter,  cries  of 
"  Shut  up!  "  "  Give  her  a  chancel  "  etc., 
and  silence  again  falls.  A  little  pause. 


320  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.  [Simply  and  tenderly.]  Sveet  ladies — gentle 
men — dear  peoples  who  'ave  been  so  good  to  me !  I  do  not 
know  your  names  an'  faces — I  cannot  follow  you  into  your 
'omes,  an'  laugh  an'  veep  vit'  you  in  every  joy  an'  sorrow. 
I  can  jus'  sing  a  leetle,  an'  pray  de  saints  dat  somet'ing 
in  my  song  vill  spik  to  you  an'  say — [Holding  out  her 
arms  to  them.]  "  I  love  you!  You  are  all  I  'ave  to  love 
in  dis  beeg  vorld!  "  [There  are  cheers  from  below,  cries 
of  "That's  the  ticket!"  "Hear  that?"  "Shut  up!" 
"Let  her  go  on!"  etc.]  Mebbe  you  don'  on'erstan'  jus' 
vhat  dat  mean — you  who  'ave  'usban's,  vives  an'  leetle  chil 
dren,  too!  [With  a  smile.]  Ah,,  veil!  I  vould  not  like 
it  dat  you  should!  I  only  tell  you  so  you  feel  like  doing 
for  me  vone  las'  great  kin'ness —  [There  are  cries  of 
"  What  is  it?  "  "  Tell  us!  "  "  Give  us  a  chance!  "  etc., 
from  below.  She  takes  a  step  forward  and  speaks  very 
earnestly.]  To-morrow  I  go  far  avay.  Mebbe  sometime 
I  sing  for  you  again —  [Cheers  and  cries  of  "  Of  course!  " 
"  That's  right!  "  "  Come  back  soon!  "  etc.  She  puts  up 
her  hand  for  silence.] — an*  mebbe  not.  Who  knows?  But 
if  t'rough  all  your  'appy,  'appy  lives  you  carry,  vay  down 
deep,  vone  leetle  t'ought  of  me — vone  golden  memory  of 
my  song — wherever  I  am,  dear  frien's,  oh!  I  vill  know  it 
an'  be  glad!  [Shouts  of  "We  will!"  "That's  easy!" 
"  Couldn't  help  it!  "  "  Trust  us!  "  etc.  Her  tone  changes. 
She  continues  with  tender  playfulness.]  In  my  country 
ve  'ave  a  leetle — vhat  you  say? — t'ing  ve  tell  each  oder 
vhen  ve  say  "  Addio  " — "  Che  le  rose  fioriscano  nei  vostri 
cuon  fin  chfio  rltorno  a  coglierle!"  May  de  roses  blossom 
in  your  'eart  until  I  come  to  gadder  dem  again ! 

[There   is   a   great   shout   from    the   adoring 

crowd.      "  Good-bye!  "      "  Good    luck!  " 
"  Come  back  soon!  "    "  We'll  wait  for  you!  " 

etc.,  etc.,  are  heard.     The  band  begins  to 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  321 

play,  very  slowly,  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
The  cheering  continues.  There  is  a  final 
burst  of  fireworks.  RITA  tosses  one  of  her 
white  roses  over  the  balcony,  there  is  a 
renewed  shout,  she  smiles  and  follows  it 
with  another  and  another,  until  they  are 
gone.  Then,  still  smiling,  and  showing 
her  empty  hands,  she  blows  a  last  kiss 
and  steps  inside,  shutting  the  window  be- 
hind  her.  There  has  been  applause  from 
the  people  in  the  room  at  the  close  of  her 
little  speech,  and  now  there  is  a  general 
movement  forward  to  congratulate  her. 
M.  BAPTISTE.  [Effusively.]  Ah,  madame,  mes  compli 
ments!  C'etait  parfait! 
RITA.  Merci — merci — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Embracing  her.]     Amore  mio — / 
Come  sei  bella! 

RITA.     Ah,  non  era  niente — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Formally.']     Madame,  my  congratulations ! 

RITA.     Tank  you  ver'  much — I — 

[She  staggers  suddenly,  leaning  on  a  chair 
and  putting  her  hand  to  her  head.  There 
is  a  moment's  pause,  then  everyone  speaks 
at  once. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Rushing  to  her.]     Tesoro  mio — / 
Cos'e'—  ? 

M.  BAPTISTE.    Mais  elle  est  malade — 
VAN  TUYL.     [To  ADOLPH.]     A  glass  of  water — quick! 

[He  brings  it  hurriedly. 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [To  RITA.]     Bevi. 
RITA.      [Recovering  and  refusing  the  glass.]      No — sto 
benone —     [To  BAPTISTE.]     J'ai  la  tete  en  feu — mille  par 
dons —  [She   smiles.] 


ROMANCE  [Act  III 

M.  BAPTISTE.  [Sympathetically.]  Ah  oui,  madame — je 
comprends — des  fois,  vous  saves,  ga  arrive — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [To  VAN  TUYL.]  She  'ave  eat 
nodings  for  vone — two  day!  [To  BAPTISTE.]  Monsieur, 
vous  savez  madame — elle  est  au  bout  de  ses  forces — alors, 
vous  comprenez — 

M.  BAPTISTE.  Mais  certainement — [To  the  waiters, 
chasseurs,  bellboys,  etc.]  Assez — assez,  mes  enfants! 
Dites  bon  soir  a  madame  et  sauvez-vous — / 

[They  all  huddle  towards  the  door. 

THE  BELLBOY.  [To  ADOLPH  who  is  trying  to  pull  him 
along.]  Leggo  o'  me!  Don't  ye  see  this  is  my  only 
chance?  [He  struggles.] 

ADOLPH.     [Under  his  breath.]     Ssh!     Be  still! 

A  WAITER.     [Officiously].     Tais-toi! 

THE  HEAD  WAITER.  [Angrily.]  Norn  d'un  pipe — / 
Enlevez  cet  enfant-la — / 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Loudly,  as  they  all  try  to  pull  him.] 
I  will  not!  [Calling  to  RITA.]  Say! 

RITA.  You  vant  to  spik  to  me — yes?  Come,  I  vill  lees- 
ten!  [The  waiters  release  him. 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Triumphantly  to  them.]  Ya — ya  !  Did 
ye  ever  get  left? 

[He  turns  to  RITA  and  suddenly  becomes  hor 
ribly  embarrassed. 

RITA.      [Smiling.]      Veil? 

THE  BELLBOY.  [All  in  one  breath,  speaking  very  rap 
idly.]  Beggin'  yer  pardon  an'  thankin'  ye  for  all  favors 
past  an'  present  would  it  cause  ye  too  much  inconvenience 
t'  affix  yer  autograph  to  this  little  album  thus  joinin'  the 
large  company  o'  famous  ladies  an'  gents  what  have  spread 
sunshine  in  the  life  of  a  po'r  bellboy! 

RITA.  [Bewildered.]  Vhat — ?  [To  BAPTISTE.]  Que 
dit-il,  le  p'tit? 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  323 

M.  BAPTISTE.  [Smoothly.]  Oh,  c'est  votre  autographe, 
madame — [Under  his  breath  as  he  glances  ferociously  at  the 
boy.]  Sacre  p'tit  cochon — 

RITA.  Mats  certainement —  [To  the  bellboy  holding 
out  her  hand  for  book.]  'Ere — vhere  shall  I — ? 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Gratefully  giving  her  the  book  and  a 
pencil.']  Say,  yer  a  real  Jim  Dandy!  [Pointing  to  the 
page.}  Right  there — between  P.  T.  Barnum  an'  General 
Grant!  [As  she  writes.}  I've  been  savin'  that  space  for 
two  years,  but  holy  Moses!  I  guess  I'll  never  get  any 
body  t'  beat  you! 

RITA.  [Returning  him  book.}  So — !  Be  good  boy — 
vork  'ard — an'  grow  up  fine,  big  Amer'can  man!  Vait! 
[Picking  up  a  wreath  of  roses  and  smilingly  putting  it 
round  his  neck.}  A  souvenir! 

THE  BELLBOY.  T'anks.  But  if  yer  givin'  away  sou 
venirs,  there's  one  I'd  like  more'n  this! 

RITA.     [Innocently.}     An'  vhat  is  dat? 

THE  BELLBOY.  [Taking  his  courage  in  both  hands.} 
Would  ye — would  ye  give  me  a  kiss? 

[A   movement  of  horror  on  the  part  of  the 
waiters,  proprietors,  etc. 

RITA.  [Smiling  as  she  makes  believe  to  box  his  ears, 
then  bending  over  and  kissing  him.}  Barabbin — /  [Push 
ing  him  towards  door.]  Now  run — qveek — qveek — ! 

THE  BELLBOY.  [As  he  dashes  out.]  S'elp  me  Gawd, 
I'll  never  wash  that  side  o'  my  face  again ! 

RITA.  [To  all  the  waiters,  etc.,  as  they  go  out.]  Bon 
soir!  Bon  soir!  Merci  bien — bon  soir,  Adolph — 

THE  WAITERS.     Bon  soir,  Madame — bon  soir — 

[They  go  out. 

M.  BAPTISTE.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  A  demain,  madame — / 
Et  dormez  bien! 

RITA.    Merci — merci,  cher  m'sieur — 


324  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

HEAD  WAITER.  [Kissing  her  hand,]  Ah,  madame,  vous 
savez  nous  serons  desoles  de  vous  perdre — .' 

RITA.  [Murmuring  politely.']  Ah,  m'sieur — c'est  tres 
aimable  de  votre  part!  Bon  soir — bon  soir! 

[They  go  out.    RITA,  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI  and 

VAN  TUYL  are  left  alone. 

RITA.  [Turning  away  with  a  sigh  of  lassitude."]  Oh — / 
Oh — .'  Oh — /  Son  cosi  stanca — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Sympathetically.']     Poverina! 
RITA.     [To  the  parrots.]     Behf  Manrico,  come  stai  stas- 
sera — eh?     E  tu,  Leonora  bella — [Giving  them  a  lump  of 
sugar  from  the  table.]     Ecco — /    Per  celebrare! 

[She  turns  away,  takes  a  cigarette  from  a  box 
on  a  small  table  and  lights  it.  VAN  TUYL, 
leaning  against  the  piano,  smokes  a  cigar 
ette  quietly  and  watches  her.  SIGNORA 
VANNUCCI  bustles  about  the  fire,  prepar 
ing  the  negligee,  slippers,  etc. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Always  speaking  as  one  would  to 
a  spoilt,  tired  child.]  Vieni,  piccina!  Levati  il  mantello! 
Guarda!  Ecco  la  tua  veste  da  camera  tutta  bella  calda — 

RITA.  [Blowing  out  her  match  and  turning  vacantly.] 
Eh — ?  [Understanding.]  Ah,  gia — il  mio  mantello — 

[She  drops  her  cloak  carelessly  on  the  floor 
as  she  comes  over  to  the  fire  and  stops 
by  the  monkey's  cradle.  She  draws  over 
it  a  small  monogrammed  blanket,  which 
hangs  over  the  foot,  and  carefully  tucks 
it  in. 

RITA.  [Smoking  and  gently  rocking  the  cradle.]  Fa 
bene — dormi — dormi,  belleza  mia!  Mamma  e  qui,  vicino 
a  te — dormi,  anima  mia — dormi — dormi — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Coming  to  her  with  a  large  jewel- 
case.]  La  tua  corona,  cara — e  i  tuoi  gioielli — 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  325 

RITA.  [Putting  her  hand  to  her  brow.]  Oh,  my  'ead — 
it  is  so  tired — Eccola — .' 

[She  slowly  and  listlessly  takes  off  the  crown, 
her  necklace,  bracelets,  brooches,  rings, 
etc.,  and  gives  them  to  the  VANNUCCI.  The 
latter  puts  them  in'  the  jewel-case. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [While  this  is  going  on.]  E  la 
collana — cosi  si  fa — ora  gli  anelli — ora  dammi  il  tuo  braccio 
che  ti  levo  i  braccialetti — 

RITA.  [Petulantly,  as  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI  pinches  her  in 
unclasping  a  bracelet.]  Fa  attenzione — che  mi  fai  male.1 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Quickly.]  Oh,  scusa — scusa, 
cara! 

[She  shuts  the  case  and  puts  it  in  the  inside  room. 
RITA.      [Sitting  down  on  the  floor  before  the  fire  where 
the  cards  are  scattered  and  speaking  in  an  odd  voice.]     Per 
I'ultima  volta — chissa  cosa  diranno? 

[She  recovers  herself  with  an  effort,  gathers 
up  the  cards,  shuffles,  and  begins  to  deal, 
her  cigarette  still  in  her  mouth. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Coming  from  the  inner  room.]  Ah, 
lascia  le  carte  stassera! 

RITA.     [Paying  no  attention  to  her.]     La  carta  di  mezzo 

a  destra — cosi!    [Counting.]    Una — due — ire — died!    Cost! 

[She  deals  and  moves  about  the  cards  in  a 

mystic  pattern. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Kneeling  by  her  and  taking  off  her 
slippers,  trying  not  to  disturb  her.]  Eccoci!  [Feeling  her 
feet.]  Madonna  mia!  Come  son  freddi — / 

RITA.  [Busy  with  the  cards.]  II  re  di  cuori  cambia 
posto  col  fante — [She  kicks  viciously  at  the  VANNUCCI. 
Then  resuming.]  E  il  fante  coll'asso — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Gingerly  trying  to  put  a  slipper 
on  the  other  foot.]  Adagio!  Adagio!  [As  she  succeeds.] 


326  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

Ecco.     E   gia  finita!      [Undoing   RITA'S   dress.]      Adesso 
leviamo  questo — ci  vuole  un  momenta  solo — 

RITA.  [Over  her  shoulder.]  Via!  [Resuming.']  Metto 
I'ultimo  quadro  su  il  primo  cuore — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [As  before.]  Ti  prego,  cara — un- 
momentino — • 

RITA.  [In  sudden  anger.]  Lasciami  stare — /  0  ti  do 
una  lavata  di  capo — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Appealing  to  VAN  TUYL.]  Milor 
— 'e  see — she  villa  not  let  me — 

[RiTA  solemnly  crosses  herself  thrice. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Tossing  away  his  cigarette  and  rising.] 
Rita. 

RITA.     [Looking  up.]     Vhat — ? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Quietly.]  Stand  up.  The  signora  wants 
to  put  on  your  dressing-gown. 

RITA.  [Whimpering  as  she  tosses  her  cigarette  into  the 
fire  and  rises.]  Oh,  dear !  Vhat  for  you  make  me — 

VAN  TUYL.     [Interrupting.]     Ssh — ! 

[During  the  following^  with  the  VANNUCCT'S 
help  she  slips  off  her  ball-gown  and  puts 
on  the  elaborate  negligee. 

HITA.  [Simplyj  still  looking  at  him.]  Vhy  you  come 
'ere? 

VAN  TUYL.    Don't  you  want  to  see  me? 

RITA.     Oh,  I  dunno — I  am  so  tired — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Taking  one  of  her  hands.]  Poor  little 
thing ! 

RITA.  Yes,  dat  is  right — poor  leetle — [Suddenly  and 
viciously  to  VANNUCCI.]  Per  carita!  Credi  che  sia  fatta 
di  legno — ? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Panic-stricken.]  Scusi  tanto,  cara 
mia!  Fa  bene, — cost! 

[She  goes  off  into  the  inner  room,  carrying  the  dress. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  327 

RITA.     [In  a  sulky  voice  to  VAN  TUYL.]     She  mos'  ver' 
nearly  break  my  arm ! 

[She  drops  on  the  floor  again  and  lies  at  full 
length,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  studying  the 
cards. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     And  what  do  the  cards  say— 
eh,  little  Italian  sorceress? 

RITA.  Dey  say — dey  say — [She  looks  far  away.]  You 
did  not  see  'im  veep ! 

VAN  TUYL.     What? 

RITA.  [As  before.]  'E  veep  jus*  like  a  leetle  boy— vhen 
first  'e  meet  de  badness  of  de  vorld — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Concerned.]  Ah,  don't,  my  dear!  Don't 
think  of  it  any  more ! 

RITA.  [Looking  down  again  at  the  cards.]  T'ree  club 
— dat  mean  a  long,  long  journey— 

VAN  TUYL.  [Cheerfully.]  Well!  You're  certainly  go 
ing  away.  What  comes  next? 

RITA.  Vour — five  di'mon' — an'  good  vones,  too.  Dat 
mean  success  an'  money — vhat  you  say  ? — great  fame.  Only 
to  reach  it  I  mus'  go  t'rough  much. 

VAN  TUYL.    You'll  get  there — never  fear ! 

RITA.  [Closing  her  eyes.]  Ah,  my  frien',  I  t'ink  I  am 
too  tired  to  try. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Sympathetically.]  I  know  it's  hard,  my 
dear,  but — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  'E  vould  not  spik  to  me  vone 
leetle  vord !  I  say  "  T'ank  you  for  'aving  loved  me !  " — 
jus'  like  dat! — an'  den  I  vait.  But  'e  say  nodings — so  I  go 
avay. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Pained.]  Don't,  dear,  it's  no  use !  [Point 
ing  to  a  card.]  What's  that  jack  of  hearts  doing  up  here 
in  the  corner? 

RITA.    Mebbe  'e  is  a  blond  young  man  who  give  to  me  'is 


328  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

'eart — [Breaking  off.]      'Ow  long  you  t'ink,  before  'e  vill 
forget  ? 

VAN  TUYL.    Ssh ! 

RITA.  [Returning  to  cards.]  Ah,  che  m'importa? 
[Pointing  to  the  jack.]  Dat  blond  young  man — look!  'Ow 
'e  is  far  from  me ! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Looking  at  cards.]  From  you — ?  Oh,  of 
course!  You're  the  red  queen  down  in  the  middle  of  all 
those  spades.  They're  nothing  bad,  I  hope? 

RITA.     You  are  among  dem. 

VAN  TUYL.    I—? 

RITA.  Yes,  an'  de  oders,  too — see!  You  are  all  about 
me — dere  is  no  vay  out. 

VAN  TUYL.    But,  dear,  I— 

RITA.  [Beginning  with  a  little  smile.]  My — vhat  you 
say?  [Tenderly.] — my  flames — my  splendid  vones  of 
whom  I  vas  so  proud — look!  'ow  you  are  black,  an'  strong 
— ah,  santa  Madonna!  I  'ave  give  you  ev'ryt'ings,  an'  now 
vhen  love,  'e  come  an'  smile  an'  'old  out  'is  dear  'ands,  I 
cannot  give — no,  cruel  vones !  You  'ave  leave  me  nodings 
— you  'ave  take  it  all — 

[She  sweeps  away  the  cards  and  buries  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Gently.]  No.  Not  all.  No  one  could  do 
that.  [Changing  his  tone.]  Come  and  play  for  me!  Please, 
there's  a  dear! 

RITA.     [Vacantly.']     Play — ? 

VAN  TUYL.  [Standing  above  her.]  Yes.  A  little  music 
will  do  you  good. 

RITA.     Music — ? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Simply.]     That's  left,  my  dear.     [Pause.] 

RITA.  [Half  to  herself.]  Yes— dat  is  lef.  [To  him.] 
Veil,  vhat  you  vant  I  play? 

[She  holds  out  her  hands  for  him  to  help  her  up. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  329 

VAN  TUYL.  [Doing  so.]  Try  something  of  our  old 
friend  Abbe  Liszt.  You  know,  that  thing  I  used  to  like  so 
much — all  stars  and  jasmine — voices  in  the  night — 

[She  sits  at  the  piano  and  plays. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Delighted.]  That's  it!  [He  hums  the  air 
lightly.]  By  Jove — !  Isn't  that  beautiful?  What's  it 
called? 

RITA.     [Playing.]     A  dream  of  love — 
VAN   TUYL.     Of  course!     So  it  is!      [She  breaks  off.] 
What's  the  matter? 

RITA.  I  'ave  vake  up — dat  is  all.  De  dream  is  gone — 
[She  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.  VAN 
TUYL  puts  his  hand  gently  on  her 
shoulder.  There  is  an  instant's  pause. 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI  comes  bustling  in 
from  the  other  room. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [entering.]  Adesso!  Siamo  bell'e 
pronti  per — [She  sees  RITA'S  position.  VAN  TUYL  makes 
a  gesture  for  her  to  be  still.  She  stops  in  the  middle  of  her 
phrase.  Then,  under  her  breath.]  Poverina! 

[She  catches  VAN  TUYL'S  eye,  makes  a  ges 
ture  towards  RITA,  then  to  macaroni  at 
fref  next  to  table — then  pantomime  of 
eating.  He  nods  assent.  With  every  evi 
dence  of  satisfaction  she  goes  over  to  fre 
and  takes  up  the  macaroni,  pours  the 
sauce  over  it,  and  stirs  it. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Turning  to  RITA,  speaking  kindly  and 
cheerfully.]  Supper's  ready ! 

RITA.     [Stifled.]     I  am  not  'ungry. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Pleading.] .  Oh,  please !  Why,  the  signora 
has  taken  all  the  trouble  to  cook  your  favorite  macaroni— 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [From  fre.]  Al  sugo—sono 
buonissimi! 


330  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.     No — no — no — 

VAN  TUYL.  Think  how  disappointed  she'll  be — [Raising 
her.]  There!  Come  along,  little  girl — [Showing  her  the 
table.]  Doesn't  that  salad  look  good?  We'll  sit  you  down 
in  this  big  armchair  at  the  head  of  the  table — [Doing  so 
as  he  speaks.]  and  I'll  be  butler,  with  my  napkin  over  my 
arm — so!  [Imitating  a  servant's  manner.]  And  will 
madame  drink  Chianti  or  a  little  champagne — ?  [Looking 
at  the  label  on  the  bottle.]  Roznay  et  Perrault,  '52 — not 
too  dry,  I  venture  to  recommend  it.  Champagne — ?  Very 
good,  madame — I'll  open  it  at  once !  [He  begins  to  do  so.] 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Serving  her  with  spaghetti.]  Ecco! 
Che  buon  odore?  [Sprinkling  it  with  cheese.]  Mettiamo 
abbastanza  formaggio — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Pulling  the  cork  and  filing  a  glass.]  There ! 
That's  a  happy  sight  for  any  prima  donna!  Just  taste  it 
now  and  tell  me  if  it's  all  right.  If  not,  I'll  send  down  and 
—  [As  she  refuses  the  glass.]  Please,  dear!  You  really 
need  it ! 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [As  one  speaks  to  a  child.]  Macche! 
Non  mangi?  \Coaxmgly. ~\  Ti  prego — / 

VAN  TUYL.  [Offering  her  again  the  glass.]  Just  as  a 
favor — please.  [She  shakes  her  head. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Winding  a  great  coil  of  spaghetti 
around  the  end  of  a  fork  and  holding  it  in  front  of  RITA'S 
mouth.]  Questo  pochino — presto!  presto!  Apri  la  bocca! 
[As  RITA  draws  her  head  away  and  the  spaghetti  falls  to 
the  plate.]  Santo  Dio! 

[A  pause  of  discouragement.  She  and  VAN 
TUYL  look  at  each  other  and  shrug  their 
shoulders.  Then  a  happy  idea  comes  to 
the  signora.  Behind  RITA'S  back,  she 
gestures  towards  VAN  TUYL,  then  to  the 
spaghetti,  pantomime  of  his  sitting  at 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  331 

table  opposite  RITA,  and  eating  and  drink 
ing.    He  smiles  and  nods. 

VAN  TUYL.  [To  RITA.]  You  know  the  sight  of  that 
macaroni's  making  me  hungry?  I  wonder  if  there'd  be 
enough  to  give  me  just  a — 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Interrupting  and  running  to  serve 
him.]  But  certainly!  Now  if  milor  'e  jus'  sita  downa — 
[As  VAN  TUYL  does  so,  opposite  RITA.]  Ah,  dat  is  all 
right !  You  lika  da  macaroni,  I  bet  my  life ! 

[She  serves  him. 

VAN  TUYL.  Here!  That's  enough!  Thanks.  [As  he 
pours  himself  a  glass  of  wine.']  And  just  a  swallow  of 
champagne — I  declare,  I  feel  quite  famished !  [Pause.  He 
does  not  touch  anything.]  Well !  Are  you  going  to  let  me 
starve  ? 

RITA.     [Rousing  herself.]      Vhat  you  say? 
VAN  TUYL.     You  know   I   can't  eat  anything  until  my 
hostess  does. 

RITA.     [Aggrieved.]     It  is  a  treeck  you  play! 
VAN  TUYL.     [Humbly.]     No,  on  my  word,  I'm  hungry ! 
RITA.      [Smiling  unwillingly.]      Den  jus'  because  I  am 
so  frightfully  polite ! 

[She  eats  a  piece  of  spaghetti.  SIGNORA 
VANNUCCI  and  VAN  TUYL  exchange 
glances. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Hanging  over  RITA.]     Buoni? 
RITA.     [Patting  her  cheek.']     Squisiti — / 
SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.     [Kissing  her.]     Tesorino  mio! 
VAN  TUYL.     I'm  thirsty,  too ! 
RITA.     [Smiling.]     Blageur! 

[She    drinks    some   champagne.      He   smiles 

and  follows  her  example. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Putting  down  his  glass.]  A  thousand 
thanks !  And  now,  my  dear,  the  signora's  had  a  hard  day's 


332  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

packing  and  to-morrow  she'll  be  up  at  dawn.     Why  don't 
you  send  her  to  bed  and  give  her  a  good  night's  rest  ? 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  Grazia,  milor — I  am  nota  much 
tired— 

RITA.  Ha  ragione.  A  letto!  E  metti  in  gabbia  i  pap- 
pagalli!  [She  drinks  again. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [Meaningly.]  Capisco!  Tu  e 
milor  avrete  da  chiacchierare  un  po'!  [To  the  parrot.]  E 
voif  povere  bestie!  Dovete  avere  un  bel  sonno.  [Unchain 
ing  them  and  taking  one  on  each  wrist.]  Andiamo — /  [To 
VAN  TUYL.]  I  'ope  milor  'e  sleep  ver'  fine!  Good  night! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Politely  rising.]  Oh,  thanks.  Good  night, 
signora. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.  [At  door — back.]  E  tu,  anima  mia 
— mangia  piii  che  puoi! 

RITA.  Buona  notte — [Suddenly  putting  down  her  glass, 
rising  and  running  to  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI.]  Carissima  mia, 
ti  ringrazio  tanto — tanto!  Ti  amo  sempre — non  dimenti- 
carel  Ti  amo — Ti  amo — 

[She  throws  her  arms  around  her  neck  and 
kisses  her  warmly. 

SIGNORA  VANNUCCI     [Half  smothered  by  the  embrace.] 
Madonna  santissima,  cosa  vuol  dire  tutto  questo?    [Snivel 
ling  a  little.]     Corpo  di  Bacco!     Mi  fai  piangere!     Buona 
notte — [Kissing    her.]      Buona   notte,    milor — /      [Kissing 
her   again.]      Carissima — /      Buona    notte — buona   notte — 
[She  goes  out,  sniffing  and  smiling  and  carry 
ing  the  parrots. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Who  has  served  her  with  salad.]  Now  sit 
down  and  finish  your  supper. 

RITA.      [Shaking  her  head.]       No — it  is  enough — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Filling  her  glass  and  lifting  his  own.] 
Well,  then,  let's  drink  a  toast— eh?  I  have  it!  To  the 
splendor  of  your  days  to  come !  [He  bows  and  drinks. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  333 

Then,  seeing  she  has  not  followed  his  example.']  What's 
the  matter?  Don't  they  tempt  you? 

RITA.  [Holding  her  glass.']  I  do  not  drink  to  vhat 
I  know  mus'  be,  but  to  a  dream  I  vill  not  dream  again — 
de  picture  of  a  small  room,  varm  an'  bright,  vit'  'im  so  busy 
writing  at  'is  desk, — an'  me,  before  de  fire,  jus'  rocking, 
smiling,  vit'  a  little  baby  nursing  at  my  breas'. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Suddenly.']  My  dear,  I  want  you  to  listen 
to  a  plan.  [Sitting  in  the  big  chair  and  drawing  her  down 
until  she  nestles  at  his  feet.}  There—!  That's  right—! 
[Cheerfully  resuming.']  Now  how  would  you  like  it  if  I 
sailed  on  the  Alaska  in  April  and  met  you  in  Paris  and  took 
you  straight  back  to  Millefleurs — 

RITA.     But  my  Russian  concert  tour? 

VAN  TUYL.     They  can  get  Patti  in  your  place. 

RITA.     [Not  pleased.]     Patti—? 

VAN  TUYL.     Yes,  she'd  be  glad  enough  to  go. 

RITA.  [Less  and  less  enthusiastic.]  But  my  dear  frien', 
it  is  not — vhat  you  say? — it  is  not  fair? 

VAN  TUYL.     To  whom? 

RITA.    To  dose  poor  Russians  ! 

VAN  TUYL.     [Smiling.]     You're  jealous! 

RITA.  [Outraged.]  Of  Patti?  Me—?  [Very  scorn 
fully.}  My  Lord! 

VAN  TUYL.  [Caressing  her  hair.}  Then  why  bother? 
Think  of  Millefleurs  and  how  we  loved  it  on  those  nights 
in  May !  And  it's  there  now — asleep  and  empty,  like  some 
spellbound  garden,  just  waiting  for  the  touch  of  spring,  and 
us,  to  give  it  life  again. 

RITA.  [Her  head  against  his  knee.}  You  tol'  me  vonce 
you  are  too  ol'  to  love  Millefleurs — 

VAN  TUYL.  [Smiling}  My  dear,  your  sorcery  can  make 
me  young  again. 

RITA.    No — no — dat  is  imposs'ble — you  don'  on'erstan' — 


334  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

VAN  TUYL.  [Holding  her.]  What  is  it?  Tell 
me! 

RITA.  [Rising.]  I  cannot  do  t'ings  like  dat  any  more. 
[A  pause.] 

VAN  TUYL.  [Humbly.]  Forgive  me.  It  was  a  mistake. 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you. 

RITA.  [Choking.]  'Urt  me?  You—?  My  dear,  dear 
frien',  I  am  not  vort'  such  kin'ness — [She  takes  his  hand.] 
But  in  dese  las'  few  veeks,  I  learn  somet'ing  all  new  an'  bee- 
eautiful — de  goodness  of  de  vorld — !  It  come  like  some 
great  light  dat  burn  an'  blind  an'  strike  me  to  de  groun' ! 
It  show  me  for  de  first  time  to  myself!  Ah,  santo  Dio! 
vhat  it  is  I  see!  But  now  I  cannot  change,  an'  yet  I 
cannot  jus'  forget,  an'  go  on  as  before — you  see,  I  am — 
oh,  vhat  you  call  it?  all  meex  up!  [Pointing  to  her  bed.] 
I  almos'  vish  dat  I  could  lie  down  dere  tonight — an'  say 
good-bye. 

VAN  TUYL.     And  what  about  Tom? 

RITA.     [Quickly.]     Don'  spik  'is  name — 

VAN  TUYL.  I  must.  If  knowing  him  has  done  all  that 
for  you — and  God  help  me,  dear,  but  up  to  now  I  didn't 
realize  that  it  had! — don't  you  think  you  owe  him  some 
thing  in  return? 

RITA.     Somet'ing? 

VAN  TUYL.  Yes,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  You've 
got  to  pull  yourself  together,  to  raise  your  head  and  say, 
"I've  been  foolish  in  my  time — but  that's  all  over.  From 
now  on  I'm  going  to  be  strong.  I'm  going  to  turn  the  rest 
of  my  life  into  a  splendid  noble  thing.  I  won't  stop  till 
I'm  the  sort  of  woman  Tom  would  be  proud  of" — 

RITA.     [Interrupting.]     Please — please — 
VAN    TUYL.      [With   sudden   tenderness.]      I   know   it's 
hard,  my  darling,  but  that's  no  reason  why  you  should  give 
up.     Why,  it's  your  prize,  your  chance — the  power  to  turn 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  335 

this  dreadful  business   into   something  radiant   and  true — 
the  final  gift  Tom's  put  into  your  hands ! 

RITA.     [Clasping  her  hands.']     Ah,  Dio  mio — 
VAN   TUYL.      [Going   on.]      Be   brave!   live   gloriously! 
And  if  responsibility's  the  price  of  love,  love's  worth  it. 
Isn't  it,  my  dear?      [A  pause.'] 

RITA.     You  are  right.     But  oh,  my  frien' — my  frien' — 

vhat  'ave  I  done — vhat  'ave  I  done  dat  all  dis  come  to  me — ? 

[She  bursts  into  agonized  tears  and  throws 

herself    on    the    couch,    sobbing    bitterly. 

VAN  TUYL.     [Putting  his  hand  on  her  shaking  shoulder.] 

My  dear,  I'm  proud  of  you. 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  to  the  hall. 
They    both    turn.      A    moment's    silence. 
The  knock  is  repeated. 
RITA.     [Whispering.]     Vhat  shall  I—? 
VAN  TUYL.     Go  and  open  it. 
RITA.     [Going  to  door.]     Who  is  dere? 
THE    BELLBOY'S    VOICE.      [Outside.]      It's    me,   ma'am. 
There's  a  gent  downstairs  t'  see  ye. 

RITA.     Vhat — ?  [She  opens  the  door  a  crack. 

THE  BELLBOY.     They  told  him  it  was  awful  late  an'  you 
was  tired,  but  he  wouldn't  go  an'  made  'em  send  up  this. 
\I-Ie  sticks  in  his  arm  with  a  tray,  on  which 
is  a  note.     RITA  takes  it,  looks  at  it,  then 
opens   it   quickly   and   takes   out   a   card, 
which  she  reads.] 

VAN  TUYL.     [Watching  her  face.]     It's  Tom? 
RITA.     [Nodding.]     Yes. 

VAN  TUYL.     [In  a  low  voice.]     What  does  he  want? 
RITA.     [Reading.]     "  I  mus'  see  you.    It  is  life  or  death." 
[Looking  up.]     Dat's  all. 

VAN  TUYL.    What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

RITA.     I  will  say  "  no."         [She  turns  towards  the  door. 


336  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

VAN  TUYL.    Wait! 

RITA.  [Shuddering.']  After  vhat  'as  'appen,  I  can  never 
look  into  'is  eyes  again, 

VAN  TUYL.  Perhaps  this  is  the  last  time  you  two  will 
ever  meet.  Be  merciful.  Don't  leave  the  poor  boy  with 
the  memory  of  this  afternoon.  Give  him  the  chance  of 
seeing  you  as  you  are.  Give  him  the  joy  of  knowing  what 
he's  done  for  you. 

RITA.  [Nervously.]  Please  don'  ask  me — no — I  do  not 
dare — 

VAN  TUYL.    Be  a  brave  child !    Let  me  send  for  him ! 

RITA.     No — not  to-night — 

VAN  TUYL.  This  very  minute.  [Going  to  the  door.] 
Ask  the  gentleman  to  come  upstairs. 

THE  BELLBOY.     All  right,  sir. 

[He  closes  the  door.    VAN  TUYL  turns  to  find 
his  coat,  hat  and  stick. 

RITA.     [Terrified.]     You  are  not  going! 

VAN  TUYL.     He  mustn't  find  me  here. 

RITA.  [Trembling  and  clinging  to  him.]  Ah,  don'  leave 
me — please — I  am  afraid — 

VAN  TUYL.  Afraid — when  you  can  help  him?  I  thought 
you  loved  him,  dear.  [She  releases  her  hold  on  him.  He 
offers  her  his  hand.]  Good-bye. 

RITA.     [Taking  his  hand.]     Good-bye. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Still  holding  hers.]  Do  you  forgive  me, 
Rita? 

RITA.     For  vhat? 

VAN  TUYL.     [Wistfully.]     For  everything. 

[With  a  little  gasp   she   lifts   his   hand  and 
touches  it  to  her  lips. 

VAN  TUYL.  [Deeply  moved  as  he  suddenly  gathers  her 
in  his  arms.]  My  darling — !  Beautiful — !  Joy  of 
men — ! 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  337 

RITA.     [Brokenly.]     Oh,  my  good  frien* — 

[She  buries  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

VAN  TUYL.  [With  infinite  tenderness.]  Little  bird—! 
I  shall  hear  your  singing  in  my  heart  forever,  and  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul! 

[He  bends  over  and  softly  kisses  her  hair. 
Then,  quickly  and  sharply,  turns  and  goes 
out  the  other  door.  RITA  is  left  alone. 
She  looks  after  htm  for  a  moment,  then 
runs  to  the  window  and  opens  it.  Outside 
the  gleam  and  swirl  of  falling  snow  can 
be  seen.  She  stands  there,  one  hand  to 
her  throat,  breathing  deeply.  A  knock 
is  heard  at  the  door  to  the  hall.  She  closes 
the  window  and  turns.  The  knock  is 
repeated,  more  loudly.  She  tries  to  speak, 
but  cannot.  The  knock  is  heard  a  third 
time.  She  controls  herself  with  a  great 
effort. 

RITA.    Come ! 

[The  door  opens  and  TOM  appears.  He 
closes  the  door  and  stands  with  his  back 
against  it,  looking  at  her.  He  is  quite 
white,  his  hair  dishevelled,  his  eyes  wild. 
He  is  without  overcoat  or  gloves — the 
snow  is  still  on  his  shoulders,  his  hands 
are  red  with  cold.  His  voice  is  strange. 
He  moves  and  talks  as  though  devoured  by 
some  inward  flame.  During  the  entire 
scene  he  rarely,  if  ever,  takes  his  eyes 
away  from  her. 

RITA.     [With  difficulty.]     You — you  vant  to — see  me? 

TOM.     Yes. 

[They  look  at  each  other,  breathing  deeply. 


338  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.      [Unsteadily.]     Veil? 

TOM.     Just  wait.     I — I'm  sort  of  cold. 

RITA.  [Her  manner  changing  at  once.]  De  fire — please 
— go  qveeck  an'  varm  yourself — [Taking  him  by  the  arm 
and  drawing  him  across.]  Santi  benissimi!  You  are  all 
vet!  [Glancing  at  his  feet.]  An'  your  shoe — per  capita! 
You  'ave  valk  'ere  in  dis  snow ! 

TOM.  [Oddly.]  Yes.  I've  been  walking.  All  the  time 
that  you  were  singing  there.  I  think  I  got  as  far  as  Trinity, 
but  I  don't — quite  remember. 

RITA.  Vhat  for  you  come  out  on  a  night  so  bad?  An', 
if  you  mus',  vit'out  dat  beeg  t'ick  coat? 

TOM.  [Looking  down  at  himself.]  My  coat?  I  suppose 
I — I  forgot  to  put  it  on. 

RITA.     Forget — !     [With  an  exclamation.]     Madonna! 

TOM.  [Again  staring  at  her.]  I  was  thinking  about 
something  else.  About  you.  I  was  praying  for  you  in  the 
twilight — in  the  evening — in  the  black  and  dark  night — 

RITA.     Oh,  Meestair  Tom! 

TOM.  [Continuing.]  I  walked  and  prayed.  And  in  my 
prayers  I  felt  a  little  hand  here  on  ray  arm.  Some  lost 
one  offering  herself,  I  thought.  But  when  I  looked  down 
at  the  red  mouth  under  the  veil  and  the  tawdry  bonnet,  my 
head  swam.  It  was  you! 

RITA.     [Amazed.]     Me — ? 

TOM.  I  heard  you  crying  as  I  ran  away.  And  I  ran 
and  ran — I  don't  know  where — till  I  saw  some  lights  and 
people.  And  then  a  little  beggar,  playing  on  the  curb,  held 
up  her  hand.  And  when  I  gave  her  a  penny,  she  thanked 
me — with  your  voice. 

RITA.     No — no-^-you  vere  meestake — 

TOM.  Of  course !  And  then  I  saw  you  walking  by  me 
in  the  streets  and  looking  at  me  out  of  windows — hundreds 
of  different  women,  but  every  one  was  you.  I  couldn't 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  339 

move — you  were  so  thick  and  close.  And  it  began  snowing, 
and  I  thanked  God,  because  that  would  blot  you  from  my 
sight.  But  no !  Each  snowflake  was  a  tiny  face.  Your 
face.  Some  crowned  with  diamonds,  some  with  loosened 
hair,  some  old  and  terrible,  some  sad  and  young.  Some 
with  your  sweet  lips  parted  and  your  cheeks  all  wet  with 
tears.  And  you  came  and  came  and  kept  on  coming. 
Thousands  and  millions  of  you,  driving  and  swirling  in 
your  devil's  dance  by  the  glare  of  the  gas-light  on  the 
corner.  And  not  one  spoke.  You  all  just  looked  at  me  as 
if  you  wanted  something — imploring — longing  with  your 
beautiful  dumb  eyes.  And  suddenly  I  knew!  You  were 
begging  me  to  bring  your  soul  to  God  before  it  was  too 
late!  And  I  called  to  you — I  cried  out  that  I  would! 
And  then  you  smiled  and  vanished,  and  I  came  here  though 
the  storm. 

RITA.     [Clasping  her  hands.']     You  poor,  poor  boy — 

TOM.  It's  different  now.  Of  course  you  understand. 
[With  emphasis.]  As  man  and  woman,  we've  done  with 
one  another.  Everything  like  that  is  over  and  forgotten — 
seared  away.  But  I  am  still  a  minister  of  God's  word  and 
you  are  still  a  human  being  in  mortal  peril! 

RITA.     [Tenderly.]     Ah,  don' talk  dat  vay !    But  come — 

sect  'ere !     You  are  all  shaking — see !  you  vill  catch  col' ! 

[She  tries  to  make  him  sit  by  fire. 

TOM.  [Paying  no  attention.]  Do  you  know  you're  stand 
ing  on  the  brink  of  life  or  death  ?  You  must  choose  between 
them. 

RITA.     [Trying  to  calm  him.]     Yes,  yes — anodder  time. 

TOM.  No,  not  another  time!  Tonight!  This  very- 
minute  !  Now ! 

RITA.     [In  deep  distress.]     Oh,  vhy  you  come  ? 

TOM.  To  save  you,  dear.  Now  listen!  At  midnight 
I  must  lead  my  clergy  through  the  streets.  You  know,  my 


340  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

plan  to  gather  in  the  vagrants  for  my  New  Year  Service. 
And  tomorrow  you  go  away.  So  this  is  my  hour — my  hour 
of  hours!  And  I'll  never  leave  you  till  you've  given  me 
your  soul! 

RITA.     Ah,  if  you  only  knew  'ow — 

TOM.     [Interrupting  and  holding  up  his  hand.]     Listen ! 
Don't  you  hear  it — now — above  us — in  this  very  room? 
RITA.    'Ear  vhat — ? 

TOM.  [In  a  sort  of  rapture."]  The  sound  of  many 
waters — 

RITA.     [Puzzled.]     Eh? 

TOM.  The  Voice — [Very  solemnly.']  The  thunder  of  an 
angel's  wings !  [A  pause.] 

RITA.  I  'ear  de  vind  blow,  an'  my  eart'  beat.  Dat 
is  all. 

TOM.  It's  here!  I  feel  it!  [Ecstatically.]  Oh,  dear 
God!  Dear  God!  You're  giving  me  the  strength  to  con 
quer  her! 

RITA.  [Anxiously.]  Conquair— ?  [Suddenly.]  You 
vant  to  'urt  me !  Ah,  don*  'urt  me — please ! 

TOM.  [Turning  to  her  and  speaking  with  sudden  tender 
ness.]  My  dear,  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world.  It's 
love  I'm  offering  you — [As  she  makes  a  quick  movement.] 

no^  wait,  my  poor  child.     Not  the  sick  passion  of  those 

luxurious  beasts.  Not  even  the  great  pity  I  once  knew. 
Not  theirs,  not  mine,  the  love  I  bring  to  you  tonight  is  God's 
alone ! 

RITA.    God's  love — ? 

TOM.  Yes,  darling,  His.  The  mighty  tenderness  that 
moves  the  stars,  and  understands  when  little  children  pray. 
It's  ours  forever!  [In  sudden  anxiety.]  Do  you  realize 
the  meaning  of  that  word  ? 

RITA.     [Sadly.]     Your  keess  'ave  teach  me. 

TOM.     [Always  staring  at  her.]     Little  lost  soul,  I  am 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  341 

ready  to  carry  you  home  !  Little  tired  heart,  eager  for  joy  ! 
Follow  me  and  find  it  in  His  arms ! 

RITA.     Vhat  you  mean? 

TOM.  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white 
as  snow.  For  you  come  out  of  great  tribulation  and  have 
washed  your  robes  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb — 

RITA.     Vhat  is  it — vhat  you  say? 

TOM.  [More  and  more  moved.']  You  shall  no  longer 
hunger  and  thirst.  For  He  will  lead  you  to  the  living 
waters  and  the  Tree  of  Life,  and  God  himself  will  wipe 
away  your  tears! 

RITA.     [Looking  at  him.]     I  don' — qvite  on'erstan' — 

TOM.  I  thought  our  meeting  was  the  work  of  chance — 
the  call  of  a  man  for  his  earthly  mate.  But  in  bitter  shame 
have  I  learnt  my  error.  God  drew  you  to  me,  over  land  and 
sea,  that  I  might  be  the  engine  of  His  Word.  You  are  a 
bride — but  ah!  not  mine — [H is  voice  dropping.] — not 
mine! 

RITA.     A  bride — me?     No — no — dat  is  imposs'ble — 

TOM.  [His  eyes  gleaming.']  Don't  you  hear  the  mid 
night  cry — "  Behold !  the  Bridegroom  cometh !  Go  ye 
out  to  meet  him !  "  Don't  you  see  Him,  coming  from  the 
wilderness  like  a  pillar  of  smoke,  perfumed  with  myrrh 
and  frankincense?  His  eyes  are  as  a  flame  of  fire,  on  his 
head  are  many  crowns.  He  wears  a  garment  dipped  in 
blood  and  on  it  a  name  is  written — Lord  of  Lords  and  King 
of  Kings!  Hark!  He  is  outside,  knocking  at  your  door! 
O  Rose  of  Sharon — Lily  of  the  Valley !  Cease  your  slum 
ber,  for  the  hour  has  come ! 

RITA.  [Nervously.]  I  do  not  like  it  vhen  you  talk 
dis  vay — 

TOM.  [Coming  nearer  as  she  shrinks  away.]  How  can 
you  sleep  when  His  voice  is  calling — "  Rise  up,  my  love, 
my  fair  one — and  come  away !  For  lo !  the  winter  is  past, 


.342  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

the  rain  is  over  and  gone!  The  flowers  appear  on  the 
earth,  the  time  for  the  singing  of  birds  is  come!  Open  to 
me,  my  sister,  my  love,  my  dove,  my  undefiled — for  my 
head  is  filled  with  dew  and  my  locks  with  the  drops  of  the 
night—" 

RITA.  [Desperately.]  Santa  Madonna — /  Vhat  is  it 
you  say — ? 

TOM.  Awake,  O  fairest  among  women!  Awake,  and 
open  wide  the  door!  Awake  and  sing  and  shout  and  cry 
aloud — "  My  beloved  is  mine  and  His  desire  is  towards 
me!" 

RITA.     Your  eyes — dey  bite  me — oh,  dey  burn  me  up — 

TOM.  [Breathing  fast  and  deep  as  he  comes  nearer.] 
My  dear,  He's  tired!  Don't  keep  Him  standing  there! 

RITA.     Meestair  Tom — Meestair  Tom! 

TOM.  [Hoarsely.]  Darling,  open  your  heart!  For 
God's  sake,  let  Him  in! 

RITA.  [In  a  spasm  of  nervous  horror  as  he  finally 
.seizes  her."]  Don'  touch  me — don' — don' — let  me  go ! 

[She  drops  writhing  at  his  feet.  He  holds 
fast  to  her  hands  and  speaks  quickly  bend 
ing  over  her. 

TOM.  [Changing  his  tone.]  So  that's  it,  is  it?  So 
you're  proud!  You  think  you  can  close  your  soul  against 
the  Lamb!  Well,  let  me  tell  you  now  that  unless  you 
repent,  the  day  will  come  when  your  pride  lies  broken, 
shattered  by  His  wrath!  You're  young  and  beautiful,  but 
that  won't  last !  Your  head  is  burdened  with  the  weight 
of  gold  and  splendors.  But,  unless  you  pray  God  to  for 
give  you,  the  time  is  near  when  the  stench  of  your  dead 
Tanities  will  fill  the  world — 

RITA.     [Interrupting.]     Let  me  go — let  me  go — 

[She  tears  herself  free  and  runs  over  to  the 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  343 

•fire  where  she  crouches  trembling  against 
the  wall. 

TOM.  [With  horrible  intensity.]  When  the  kings  of  the 
earth  have  sealed  themselves  in  pleasure  on  your  heart- 
when  the  merchants  of  the  earth  have  grown  fat  through 
the  abundance  of  your  delicacies — when  you  have  glorified 
yourself  and  lived  deliriously,  and  all  lands  are  drunk 
with  the  wine  of  your  abominations — when  you  have  said 
in  your  soul,  I  sit  a  queen,  and  am  no  widow,  and  shall 
see  no  sorrow — then  will  the  Son  of  Man  thrust  in  His 
sickle !  Then  will  He  gather  your  grapes  and  cast  them 
down  and  tread  them  in  the  winepress  of  God's  rage ! 
RITA.  It  is  not  true — 

[A  coal  breaks  in  the  grate  behind  her  and 
her  fgure  is  bathed  in  a  ruddy,  flickering 
glow. 

TOM.  [With  a  cry,  covering  his  face  as  if  to  shut  out 
some  dreadful  sight.]  Ah !  No !  Not  that !  Dear  God,  not 
that — not  that — 

RITA.     [Terrified.]     Vhat?    Vhat  you  say — ? 
TOM.     [Pointing  at  her.]     Look— !    The  red  light— hell 
is  burning — 

RITA.  [Beginning  suddenly  to  cry  like  a  frightened 
child.]  Oh—!  Oh—!  I  am  afraid! 

TOM.  [Wildly.]  Afraid—?  Afraid—?  Miserable 
sinner,  how  can  you  live  with  that  horror  staring  in  your 
eyes?  The  vision  of  that  dreadful  day  when  the  sun  is 
smitten,  and  the  moon  is  blood,  and  the  great  stars  reel 
and  fall  down  from  the  sky — 

RITA.     I  don'  believe — no — no,  I  don' — I  don' — 
TOM.     When  the  graves  are  broken,  and  the  sea  gives  up 
its  dead— and  great  and  small  they  stand  before  Him  and 
He  sits  in  judgment — 


344  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.  [Trying  to  interrupt  him.]  Meestair  Tom — jus' 
vait  vone  meenute — 

TOM.     [Going  on.]     Don't  you  hear  that  great  Voice  like 

a  light  that  blinds — "  I  made  you  keeper  of  my  vineyards. 

But  your  own  vineyards  you  have  not  kept.     So  you  shall 

drink  from  the  cup  of  the  wine  of  the  fierceness  of  My 

wrath  and  be  cast  into  the  bottomless  pit  and  the  lake  of 

fire.     And  there,  in  the  midst  of  your  eternal  torment  you 

shall  hear  the  alleluias  in  the  rainbow  round  My  throne !  " 

[He  sinks  into  a  chair,  and  buries  his  face  in 

his  hands.    A  pause.    Rita,  who  has  risen, 

now  comes  nearer  him. 

RITA.  [Simply.]  I  am  qvite  sure  dis  is  de  las'  time  dat 
ve  spik  togedder — de  las'  time  dat  I  look  upon  your  face. 
An'  so  I  vant  to  tell  you  jus'  a  leetle  somet-ing — an'  den — 
veil,  mebbe  I  can  say  good-bye.  [She  comes  a  little  nearer 
and  speaks  at  first  with  some  difficulty.]  You  are  ver'  kin' 
to  t'ink  of  me  so  much,  aftair  all  de  trouble  I  'ave  bring. 
An'  I  t'ank  you — I  shall  alvays  be  oblige'.  But,  dear,  you 
can  forget  me  now.  It  is  all  right.  Your  vork  is  done. 

TOM.     What's  that? 

RITA.  Before  I  meet  you  I  did  not  know  much  vhat  a 
voman's  life  should  be.  But  now  I  know.  You  show  me. 
An'  I  cannot  do  dose  ol*  t'ings  any  more. 

TOM.     [Looking  up  at  her.]     You  don't  mean — ? 

RITA.  [Her  eyes  shining.]  I  vant  to  make  my  life  all 
good — like  yours !  Ah,  yes,  I  know  dat  vill  be  'ard,  but  I 
don'  care !  An'  mebbe  de  kin'  Madonna  she  vill  'elp  me, 
vhen  she  sees  me  try! 

[She  clasps  her  hands,  the  dawn  of  hope  in 
her  face. 

TOM.  [Staring  at  her.]  Your  lips  drop  as  the  honey 
comb.  Your  mouth  is  smoother  than  oil.  But  your  feet  go 
down  to  death,  and  your  steps  take  hold  on  hell. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  345 

RITA.  [A  little  anxious. ~\  You  don'  t'ink  God,  'E  vill 
forgive  me — no?  [Smiling.']  Ah,  foolish  vone — !  'E  vill! 
Did  'E  not  make  my  face  so  men  'ave  alvays  love  me?  Did 
'E  not  put  my  voice  'ere  to  delight  de  vorld?  Did  'E  not 
give  to  vone  poor  leetle  girl,  who  ask  'Im  nodings,  so  much 
to  carry  dat  she  lose  'er  vay?  'E  vill  not  be  surprise  she 
stumble  sometime.  'E  vill  not  scol'  much  vhen  she  make 
meestake.  'E  vill  jus'  smile  an'  keep  'Is  candle  burning. 
An'  in  a  leetle  vhile  she  see  it,  an'  come  'ome ! 

TOM.     Promise  me  something — 

RITA.     Vhat? 

TOM.  Take  my  hands  and  look  me  in  the  eyes  and 
promise  me  never  to  give  yourself  to  any  man  again. 

RITA.    Ah !  I  knew  it !     You  'ave  not  believe  me ! 

TOM.  [Wiping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead.]  Of  course 
I  believe  you  but  promise  me.  For  God's  sake,  promise  just 
the  same ! 

RITA.  [Turning  away  in  agony.]  Ah,  vhy  don'  you 
trust  me?  Vhy  you  doubt  me  so? 

TOM.      [Loudly.]     You  won't — ? 

RITA.  [Turning.]  'Ere — take  my  'ands.  [He  seises 
them.]  'Ow  col'  you  are !  I  promise — vhat  you  vant  I 
say? — never  to  give  myself  to  any  man  again! 

TOM.     [Devouring  her  with  his  eyes.]     You  swear  it? 

RITA.     Yes,  I  svear!     Now  are  you  satisfied? 

TOM.  [Suddenly  uttering  a  cry  of  pain  and  hideous 
unrest.]  Ah!  [He  pushes  her  away  from  him* 

RITA.    Vhat  is  it  now — ? 

TOM.    I've  just  remembered  that  you  swore  before ! 

RITA.     [Shrinking  as  she  understands.]     No — no! 

TOM.  You  put  your  hand  on  my  dear  mother's  Testa 
ment  and  you  looked  up,  just  as  you're  looking  now — 

RITA.  [Putting  up  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.] 
No — stop  it! 


346  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

TOM.    And  you  lied,  and  lied !    You  lied  to  me — 
RITA.     No — don' — please — it  is  all  diff' rent  now — 
TOM.    Different?    I  don't  see  it.    Why,  it's  just  the  same! 
RITA.      No — no!      I    tell   you   7   am   diff'rent!      7    'ave 
change !    I  am  going  now  to  be  good ! 
TOM.     But  can  you? 

RITA.    Listen !     I  tell  you  'ow  I  show !     I  vill  stop  sing 
ing,  fin'  out  a  convent  vhere  dey  take  me  in  an' — [Sud 
denly.]    Ecco!    I  'ave  it!    Dere  are  some  nuns  near  Geneva 
who  nurse  de  sick.     I  vill  go  straight  from  Napoli,  learn 
'ow  to  'elp,  an'  vork  until  dis  flesh  fall  from  de  bone ! 
TOM.     You'll  do  that  just  to  show  me  you're  sincere? 
RITA.      [Imploringly.]      I   vill   do   all   you   vant !      Yes, 
anyt'ing!     Only  believe  me,  jus'  believe — or  else  I  die! 

TOM.     [Deeply  moved.]     All  right.     I  take  you  at  your 
word. 

RITA.      [Hardly  daring  to  believe.]     You  mean  it — ? 
TOM.      [Huskily,  his  face  working.]      Yes.      God  bless 
you,  dear.     Good-bye.      [He  turns  away.]     Before  I  go — 
there's    something    I    forgot — [Remembering.]       Oh,    yes ! 
Your  cross — your  pearls.     You  left  them  at  the  Rectory. 
[He  has  unfolded  his  handkerchief  and  taken 
from  it  the  jewels.     As  he  lays  them  on 
the  table  he  sees  VAN   TUYL'S  card,  left 
there  by  SIGNORA  VANNUCCI  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  act.    He  stands  rigid.     A  mo 
ment's  pause. 

RITA.     T'ank  you.      [Her  voice  changes  as  she  sees  his 
face.]     Vhat  is  it? 

TOM.      [Trying  to  point.]      That  card — Van  Tuyl — 

[He  chokes  suddenly. 

RITA.     [Anxiously.]     Meestair  Van  Tuyl.     Yes? 
TOM.     [With  difficulty.]     He's  been  here  then? 
RITA.     [Looking  at  him.]     Si — si — 


Act  HI]  ROMANCE 

TOM.     [Putting  his  hand  to  his  throat.]     To-night? 

RITA.     Yes. 

TOM.     [Hardly  able  to  contain  himself.]     When? 

RITA.    Jus'  before  you  come. 

TOM.  [Seizing  the  card  and  crumpling  it  in  both  hands.] 
Oh!  What  a  fool  I've  been!  What  a  fool!  What  a  fool! 
What  a  blind,  miserable,  wretched  fool! 

RITA.     Vhat  is  it?     Tell  me!     Vhat  'as  'appen? 

TOM.  Why  didn't  I  feel  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  in  that 
indecent  dress,  with  your  hair  unbound,  and  the  night-light 
burning?  Why  didn't  I  smell  it  in  the  sickening  perfume 
that  this  whole  place  reeks  of— 

RITA.    Vhat  you  mean?    O  dear  Lord,  vhat  you  mean? 

TOM.  Don't  try  to  cheat  me  any  more !  I  know  what's 
happened  in  this  room  to-night!  While  I  was  tramping 
through  the  storm  and  snow,  praying  with  my  whole  heart 
for  your  soul's  redemption — [Pointing  to  the  bedroom.]  — 
you  lay  there  laughing  in  your  lover's  arms. 

RITA.  [Stung.]  No— no !  Dat  is  not  so,  I  say— not 
so_not  so!  'E  come  in  kin'ness,  jus'  because  'e  feel  ver' 
sorry  for  me,  an'  vhen  'e  ask  me  to  go  back  to  'im,  I  'ave 
refuse ! 

TOM.    What—? 

RITA.  I  'ave  refuse!  You  'ear  me?  I  'ave  tol'  'im 
"  No! "  An'  'e  is  great  beeg  man,  an'  on'erstan'.  An'  den 
I  t'ank  'im,  an'  ve  say  good-bye. 

TOM.  [Fiercely.]  You  lie!  Why,  look  at  those  two 
chairs— so  close  together !  They  look  like  a  refusal,  don't 
they  ?  And  those  glasses — champagne — 

RITA.     No— no !     It  is  qvite  diff'ren' !    You  are  all  mees- 

take— 

TOM.       [More    and    more    fiercely.]       A    private    orgy,. 

planned  and  thought  out  days  ahead !     Your  last  caresses— 

[He  has  seized  the  table  cloth  with  both  hands.. 


548  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.     Oh,  take  care! 
TOM.     [Between  his  teeth.]     A  farewell  debauch— 

[He  pulls  the  cloth  and  drags  everything  to 
the  floor  with  a  crash. 

RITA.     [Closing  her  eyes.]     Oh ! 

TOM.  [Turning  on  her.]  Now  do  you  dare  deny  Van 
Tuyl's  your  lover  ? 

RITA.  [Her  eyes  still  closed.]  Yes  !  Yes!  I  do!  I  do! 
[Beginning  to  sway  a  little  as  she  speaks.]  I  'ave  refuse 
'^im  an'  I  tell  you  vhy !  I  t'ought  it  was  because  my  'eart 
'ave  change,  because  I  vant  so  much  to  be  good !  But  now 
I  know  dat  I  vas  all  meestake !  I  'ave  not  change !  My 
'eart,  it  is  not  good!  7  break  vit  'im  because  I  love  an- 
odder — 

TOM.     [Ready  to  Jcill  her.]     Who  is  he? 

RITA.     [Half -fainting,  as  she  opens  her  eyes  and  sways 

towards  him,  holding  out  her  arms.]     You 

TOM.  [Turning  sharply  as  if  she  had  struck  him  with 
a  whip.]  Don't! 

RITA.     [Pulling  herself  together.]     Forgive  me— 
TOM.      [Twisting  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer.]      Oh    mv 
God!     Oh,  my  God! 

RITA.  [Her  back  to  him,  holding  the  big  chair  for  sup 
port.]  An'  now— if  you  don'  min'— I  mus'  ask  you— to 
leave  me— it  is  almos'  midnight— you  'ave  your  service  in  de 
church— an'  I  myself  mus'— try  to  sleep  a  leetle—  [Turning 
with  an  enormous  effort  and  holding  out  her  hand  with  a 
smile.]  So  good-night!  I  'ope  you—  [Her  words  die  away 
as  she  sees  the  expression  on  his  face.  Then  in  a  sudden 
paroxysm  of  terror.]  Vhy  you  look  at  me  like  dat?  [A 
brief  pause.]  Please  go  avay!  [He  doesn't  move.]  Go 
avay! 

TOM.  [Starting,  wiping  his  forehead  nervously,  and 
trying  to  speak  in  his  natural  voice.]  All  right.  I'm  going. 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  349 

Yes,  I'm  going.  [His  tone  deepening.]  But  first  there's 
something  we  must  do — what  is  it?  I  forget — oh,  yes,  of 
course — of  course!  We  must  pray  together — that's  it! 
Pray  for  your  soul  and  for  your  soul's  salvation — 

RITA.  [Nervously.']  No — go  now!  I  am  in  God's  'ands. 
'E  vill  take  care  of  me.  [In  quick  fear,  he  comes  towards 
her.]  Oh,  vhat  you  vant  ? 

TOM.  [Thickly.]  Come  here — [He  seizes  her  by  the 
arm.]  Kneel  down!  [He  sits  on  the  couch  and  draws  her 
down  before  him  between  his  knees.]  There !  That's  right ! 
Give  me  your  hands ! 

[He  fumbles,  finds  them,  and  holds  them  tight 
against  his  breast.  A  silence,  they  look 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

RITA.     [Suddenly  in  wild  terror  as  she  looks  up  at  him.] 

Pray!      Vhy  don'   you  pray?     Pray!      [Half-smothered,] 

0  Gesu —          [In  a  silent  fury  of  passion  he  has  leaned 

forward,    drawn    her    up    to    him,    and 

crushed  her  in  a  terrible  embrace. 

TOM.  [Triumphantly.]  It's  all  over!  I  thought  I  came 
here  to  save  you,  but  I  didn't!  It  was  just  because  I'm  a 
man  and  you're  a  woman,  and  I  love  you,  darling — I  love 
you — I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  the  world — 

[He  is  kissing  her  frantically. 

RITA.     [Half-fainting.]     Oh—! 

TOM.  [Between  his  kisses.]  My  dearest — my  precious 
— I've  never  felt  this  way  in  all  my  life  before — [With  a 
laugh.]  What  a  fool — what  a  fool  I've  been!  But  that's 
all  right,  it's  not  too  late — we're  here — together — and  the 
night  is  ours — 

RITA.      [  Terrified.]      No— no ! 

TOM.  It's  ours — the  whole,  long  splendid  night — it's 
ours,  I  tell  you — every  marvellous  minute — why,  God  Him 
self  can't  rob  us  of  it  now! 


350  ROMANCE  [Act  III 

RITA.  [Struggling.']  Don' — please — !  Oh,  take  avay 
your  'ands — 

TOM.     I  won't — 

RITA.     It  is  because  I  love  you — 

TOM.     [Leaning  forward  to  kiss  her.]     Ah — !    I  knew — ! 

RITA.  [Pushing  him  away  from  her.]  An'  so,  because 
I  love  you,  I  mus'  save  you  f roifi  yourself ! 

TOM.     You  can't — it's  too  late — 

RITA.     Now  leesten — please !     It  is  you  who  'ave  teach 
me  vhat  is  love !     I  'ave  know  nodings — nodings — till  you 
show  me — all ! 
,  TOM.    Till  I—  ? 

[He  breaks  into  a  peal  of  jangled  laughter. 

RITA.  To  love  a  man  is  jus'  vone  big  forgetting  of  vone's 
self — to  feel  so  sorry  for  'im  dat  it  break  your  'eart — to 
'elp  'im  vhen  'e  need  'elp  if  it  cost  your  life — 

TOM.  [Laughing  again.]  Oh,  darling — you  don't  really 
think  that's  love — ? 

RITA.  I  know  it — now!  [With  a  sudden  sob.]  But, 
oh,  I  learn  it  in  such  pain  an'  sorrow!  [In  passionate  en 
treaty.]  Don't  take  it  from  me,  now  dat  it  is  mine ! 

TOM.  Oh,  nonsense!  That's  not  love — why,  that's  the 
sort  of  thing  I  used  to  talk!  [Intoxicated.]  But  I  know 
better  now !  It's  you  who've  taught  me !  Love  isn't  think 
ing  or  forgetting  about  anything — love's  just  feeling — it's 
being  awfully  sick  and  faint — as  if  you  hadn't  had  anything 
to  eat  for  years  and  years — it's — 

RITA.  [Interrupting.]  Don' — !  Don* — !  You  mus' 
not  talk  dat  vay — 

TOM.     [Moistening  his  lips.]     I  love  you — 

RITA.  [In  despair.]  Oh,  t'ink  of  dat  beeg  lake — de  lake 
of  fire — de  smoke  an*  torment  dat  you  tell  me  of! 

TOM.      [Recklessly.]      I  know  I'm  lost!     I'm  done  for, 


Act  III]  ROMANCE  351 

damned  forever!     But  I'll  have  had  this  night,  so  I  don't 
care! 

RITA.     But  7  care!     I  care! 
TOM.     [Panting.]     I'm  going  to  kiss  you — 
RITA.     [Wild  with  fright.]     Don' touch  me — no — go  back 
— please — keep  avay — 
TOM.     I  won't — 

R!TA.  [Shrinking  against  the  sofa.]  For  God's  sake — 
TOM.  [Seising  her  in  his  arms.]  My  darling — 
RITA.  [Closing  her  eyes.]  I  am  all  alone.  I  'ave  no 
strengt'.  I  cannot  fight  against  you  any  more.  But  now, 
before  it  is  too  late,  remembair — oh,  remembair  vhat  I  say ! 
Dis  is  de  vone  big  meenute  in  my  life.  De  kin'  of  voman 
I  vill  alvays  be,  it  is  for  you  to  say — 'ere — as  ve  stan'  in  dis 
room — now!  [Like  a  child.]  Oh,  Meestair  Tom!  Please 
— please  let  me  be  good  !  Don'  treat  me  like  de  odders  'ave  ! 
Don'  make  me  bad — again !  You  are  a  man  God  send  to 
'elp  de  vorld.  All  right — 'elp  me!  I  need  you!  Go  avay! 
My  'eart,  it  vill  go  vit'  you  alvays,  but  I  don'  care — jus'  so 
you  let  me  keep  my  soul ! 

[She  stands  transfigured.  As  she  speaks  he 
slowly  releases  her  and  sinks  to  his  knees. 
His  face  is  buried  in  his  hands.  There  is 
a  pause. 

Then,  in  the  distance,  sounds  the  first 
note  of  the  midnight  bell.  As  it  continues, 
a  choir  of  men's  voices — sturdy  and  sweet 
— strikes  up  far  away.  It  gradually  comes 
nearer.  They  are  singing  the  old  Lutheran 
hymn  "  Ein  Feste  Berg."  As  TOM  hears 
them  he  rises  unsteadily  to  his  feet.  He 
passes  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  as  one 
awakening  from  a  dream. 


352  ROMANCE  [The  Epilogue 

TOM.  [In  his  natural  voice,  very  formal  and  polite,  but 
a  little  constrained.]  I  beg  your  pardon — I  must  take  my 
leave — [As  he  looks  about  for  his  hat.]  My  church — the 
choir — procession — join  them  as  they  reach  the  Avenue — 
my  apologies — disturbing  you  at  such  an  hour — 

RITA.  [Her  eyes  closed,  crossing  herself  and  murmuring 
almost  inaudibly.]  Ave  Maria  gratia  plena — Sancta  Maria 
Mater  Dei — 

TOM.  [At  the  door.]  I  beg  you  to  accept — very  best 
wishes — coming  year — my — my — good-night — good-bye — 

RITA.  [As  before.] — ora  pro  nobis  peccatoribus  nunc 
et  in  hora  mortis — 

[He  is  gone.  Only  her  praying  figure  re 
mains.  The  hymn  swells  to  triumph  as 
the  lights  fade.  The  scene  is  in  darkness. 
For  a  moment  the  noise  of  the  chimes  and 
bells  continues.  Then  it  gradually  dies 
away.  The  singing  voices  are  no  longer 
heard.  A  little  band  is  playing  the  hymn. 
It  is  almost  grotesque — so  very  thin  and 
cracked  and  out  of  tune.  To  this  music 
and  the  fading  sound  of  the  bells,  the 
lights  gradually  appear.  They  reveal  the 
scene  set  for  the  Epilogue. 


THE  EPILOGUE 

[SCENE:  The  BISHOP'S  library  again.  The  BISHOP  is  sit 
ting  in  the  red  glow  of  the  dying  fire,  finishing  his 
story.  His  grandson  is  at  his  feet.  Outside  are  heard 
the  last  echoes  of  the  bells  and  whistles.  The  little 
street  band  is  still  playing  "  Ein  Feste  Berg  " — a 
lamentable  performance. 


The  Epilogue]  ROMANCE  353 

THE  BISHOP.  .  .  .  And  that's  how  I  remember  her — 
standing  there  with  her  hair  loosened  and  her  eyes  shut. 
She  crossed  herself.  I  think  now  she  was  praying.  And 
the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  on  the  sidewalk  and  my  choir 
— God  bless  'em ! — were  swinging  round  the  corner  of  Tenth 
Street,  marching  like  soldiers  to  the  same  tune  those 
wretched  Germans  are  murdering  outside  there  now — [As 
they  strike  a  particularly  distressing  dissonance.]  Ah — ! 
Really,  that's  too  much !  Give  them  a  quarter,  Harry,  and 
tell  them  to  go  away.  [As  the  young  man  rises  and  goes  to 
the  •window.']  "  Ein  Feste  Berg" — !  How  well  we  used 
to  sing  it  at  St.  Giles' — !  [ H e  smiles  and  shakes  his  head. 

HARRY.  [Throwing  up  the  window  and  calling.]  Hi — 
you !  That'll  be  enough  for  to-night !  Catch ! 

[He  throws  out  a  coin.  The  music  stops. 
There  is  silence,  save  for  a  few  far-off 
horns. 

THE  BISHOP.  [Rousing  himself  as  HARRY  returns  and 
putting  the  dead  violets  and  the  handkerchief  in  his  pocket.] 
So  that's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  my  boy !  I  came  home 
that  night  a  different — and  I  think  a  better  man.  It  was 
the  following  June  that  your  dear  grandmother  and  I  were 
married.  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  came  all  the  way  from  Madrid  just 
to  be  there  and  to  give  his  niece  away.  They're  fine  people 
— the  Van  Tuyls.  But  your  grandmother  was  the  finest  of 
them  all.  She  understood  the  world  and  loved  it,  too.  She 
made  my  life  a  happy  one — a  very  happy  one  indeed ! 

HARRY.      [Boyishly.]      And — Madame  Cavallini? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Still  looking  in  the  fre  and  smiling.]  She 
became  even  more  famous  before  her  retirement.  But,  of 
course,  you  know. 

HARRY.     Where  is  she  now? 

THE  BISHOP.  Now?  I'm  not  sure,  but  I  believe  she's  in 
Italy  somewhere — living  rather  quietly.  [Wistfully.]  She 


354  ROMANCE  [The  Epilogue 

and  Patti  are  the  only  ones  left.     A  wonderful  career,  my 
boy.     A  very  great  artist.     I  never  saw  her  again. 

HARRY.  [Patting  his  arm  awkwardly.]  I  think  you're 
just  a  corker! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Smiling.]  Nonsense!  But  now  I  hope 
you  understand  I  haven't  quite  forgotten  what  it  feels  like 
to  be  young.  And  although  it's  true  I  always  read  the 
Evening  Post,  I  still  can  sympathize — and  even  presume  to 
offer  some  occasional  advice ! 

HARRY.     I  know,  and  I  appreciate  it. 

THE  BISHOP.  [Very  solemnly.']  My  dear,  dear  boy,  un 
less  your  love  is  big  enough  to  forget  the  whole  world  and 
yet  remember  Heaven,  you  have  no  right  to  make  this  girl 
your  wife. 

[A  pause. 

HARRY.  [Rising  abruptly.]  Grandfather,  I've  been  an 
ass! 

[He  puts  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  walks  away. 

THE  BISHOP.  [Whimsically,  as  he  wipes  his  glasses.]  I 
suppose  you  have,  Harry — I  suppose  you  have. 

HARRY.  [Turning  back  again.]  I've  been  an  ass  to  hesi 
tate  one  single  minute !  However,  it's  all  right  now.  Your 
story's  settled  it.  Lucille  and  I  are  going  to  get  married 
as  soon  as  ever  we  can. 

THE  BISHOP.  [Thoroughly  startled.]  God  bless  my 
soul !  But  that  isn't  why  I  told  it  to  you !  I  wanted  to  get 
this  nonsense  out  of  your  silly  young  head ! 

HARRY.  [Laughing  affectionately  as  he  stands  behind 
the  BISHOP'S  chair  and  pats  his  shoulders.]  Never  mind ! 
You  did  something  quite  different  and  it's  too  late  now  to 
change — [Suddenly.]  By  the  way,  have  you  any  engage 
ment  for  to-morrow  afternoon? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Still  flustered.]  I — I  can't  say  that  I 
recall  any  at  this  moment — 


The  Epilogue]  ROMANCE  355 

HARRY.  Then  do  you  mind  if  we  make  one  now?  I 
want  you  to  marry  Lucille  and  me.  How  about  four-thirty 
to-morrow  ? 

THE  BISHOP.     [Gasping.]     Four-thirty — ? 

HARRY.  [At  the  door,  shyly.]  I  don't  know  how  to  say 
it,  grandpa,  but — but  Lucille  and  I — well,  we'll  be  grateful 
all  our  lives  for  what  you've  done  for  us  to-night. 

[He  goes  out  quickly,  his  head  bent. 

THE  BISHOP.     Well!     Well!     I  declare! 

[He  takes  out  his  spotless  handkerchief  and 
passes  it  nervously  over  his  brow.  The 
door  opens  and  SUZETTE  appears,  smiling 
brightly. 

SUZETTE.  [Standing  at  the  door.]  Happy  New  Year, 
grandpa ! 

THE  BISHOP.     Happy  New  Year,  my  dear! 

SUZETTE.     [Coming  to  his  chair.]     Well — ? 

THE  BISHOP.  Suzette,  I  want  you  to  order  some  white 
flowers  and  some  black  wedding-cake — 

SUZETTE.     [With  a  wriggle  of  delight.]     Oh — ! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Finishing.]  For  to-morrow  afternoon — 
four-thirty,  I  believe. 

SUZETTE.  [Flinging  her  arms  around  his  neck.]  You 
duck! 

THE  BISHOP.  [With  some  asperity.]  Don't  kiss  me  in 
the  ear ! 

SUZETTE.  [Triumphantly.]  I  just  knew  Harry  could 
get  around  you! 

THE  BISHOP.  [Drily.]  Oh,  did  you?  Well,  then,  now 
that  you  two  have  arranged  everything  to  suit  yourselves, 
would  you  please  finish  reading  me  my  paper  and  then  go 
to  bed?  [He  leans  back  comfortably  and  closes  his  eyes. 

SUZETTE.  [Going  to  the  desk.]  Where  is  it?  Oh,  yes ! 
Wait  till  I  turn  on  the  lamp — 


356  ROMANCE  [The  Epilogue 

[She  does  so,  sits  down,  sighs,  and  unfolds  the  "  Post." 

THE  BISHOP.     Is  there  any  foreign  news? 

SUZETTE.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,  just  some  uprising  in 
Portugal — a  new  Chinese  loan — [Turning  the  page.]  Why, 
Cavallini's  dead !  I  thought  she  died  a  long  time  ago,  didn't 
you?  [She  reads  to  herself.  A  slight  pause. 

THE  BISHOP.     What  does — it  say? 

SUZETTE.  Oh,  it's  just  a  cable.  [Reading.]  "  Milan — 
December  30.  Mine.  Margherita  Cavallini  died  this  morn 
ing  at  her  villa  on  the  Lake  of  Como." 

THE  BISHOP.     Is  that — all? 

SUZETTE.  That's  all  the  dispatch.  There's  a  whole 
column  of  biography  stuck  on  underneath.  Shall  I  read  it  ? 
[Suddenly.]  Oh,  of  course!  I  forgot!  She  and  Patti 
were  your  two  great  operatic  crushes,  weren't  they?  Well, 
she  was  born  at  Venice  in  1841.  That  makes  her — [Look 
ing  up  thoughtfully.]  Let  me  see — 

THE  BISHOP.     Don't  tell  me  how  old  she  was ! 

SUZETTE.  [Smiling.]  All  right.  [Running  her  eyes 
down  the  column.]  Debut  at  Milan  in  1859 — Forze  della 
Destine.  I  never  heard  of  it,  did  you?  Sang  prima  donna 
roles  at  the  Italian  Opera  in  Paris  under  the  direction  of 
Rossini — brilliant  figure  during  the  last  years  of  the  Em 
pire — success  in  London — hm! — brought  to  this  country 
first  by  Strakosch — appeared  as  Mignon  at  the  Academy  of 
Music — [Looking  up.]  Everyone  went  mad  over  her,  didn't 
they?  [Resuming.]  Opera  and  concert  tours  over  all  the 
civilized  globe — retired  in  1889 — numerous  charities — 
founded  and  endowed  a  home  in  Paris  for  poor  girls  who 
come  to  study  music — in  1883  created  Marchese  Torre- 
bianchi  by  King  Umberto  First — never  married — that's 
funny,  isn't  it?  [Turning  the  page.]  Well,  no  matter  what 
you  say  I  bet  she  wasn't  a  bit  more  wonderful  than  my 
divine  Geraldine!  [Reading  headlines.]  "Anglican  Con- 


The  Epilogue]  ROMANCE  357 

gress  at  Detroit — City  Chosen  for  June  Conference — Feder 
ation  of  Churches — Further  Plans."  [Bored.']  Oh  dear  I 
There's  the  old  Conference  again!  [She  yawns  and  look 
ing  up,  notices  that  the  BISHOP'S  head  has  fallen.]  Sleepy, 
grandpa  ? 

THE  BISHOP.  [Rousing  himself.]  I — ?  No,  my  dear,  I 
was  just  thinking — that's  all. 

SUZETTE.  [With  affectionate  impudence."]  I  don't  be 
lieve  it !  [Yawning."]  Well,  I  am,  anyway.  May  I  go  to  bed 
now?  There's  so  much  to  do  to-morrow — and  I  think  I've 
finished  everything  in  this. 

[She  puts  down  the  paper  and  rises. 
THE  BISHOP.     Of  course,  my  dear,  of  course. 
SUZETTE.     [As  she  alights  like  a  bird  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair  and  kisses  the  top  of  his  head.]     Oh,  grandpa,  you  are 
such  an  old  darling! 

THE  BISHOP.     Thank  you,  my  dear. 

SUZETTE.  [At  door."]  And  please  don't  sit  up  too  late, 
will  you?  And  don't  forget  to  turn  off  all  the  lights  before 
you  come  upstairs ! 

THE  BISHOP.     [Meekly.]     I'll  do  my  best. 
SUZETTE.      Grandpa — !      [He   turns  in   his   chair.     She 
smiles  and  blows  him  a  kiss.]     I  love  you! 

[She  runs  out. 

THE  BISHOP.  [Calling  after.]  The  same  to  you,  my 
dear.  Good-night. 

[He  sits  alone  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then, 
rising  slowly,  he  closes  the  door  and 
listens.  There  is  no  sound.  Almost 
stealthily  he  goes  over  to  the  case  where 
the  phonograph  records  are  kept,  puts  on 
his  glasses,  and  looks  over  those  lying  on 
the  top.  Finally  he  selects  one  with  much 
care  and  gingerly  puts  it  on  the  machine. 


358  ROMANCE  [The  Epilogue 

He  starts  it  going.  Then,  switching  off 
the  lights,  he  returns  to  his  armchair  by 
the  fire.  The  red  glow  from  the  coals 
lights  up  his  face.  He  carefully  takes 
from  his  inside  pocket  the  dead  violets  and 
the  woman's  handkerchief.  Looking  at 
them,  he  smiles  a  tender  little  ghost  of  a 
smile  and  slowly  sits  down.  The  rich 
voice  thrills  through  the  darkness. 
"  — Kennst  du  es  wohl? 

Dahin!    Dahin! 
Mbcht'  ich  mit  dirf  0  mein  Geliebter,  ziehn!  " 

The  Curtain  Softly  Falls. 


THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN 

A  Modern  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 
By 

LOUIS  KAUFMAN  ANSPACHER 


Louis  KAUFMAN  ANSPACHER  was  born  in  Cincinnati, 
Ohio,  March  1,  1878.  He  received  his  A.B.  at  the  College 
of  the  City  of  New  York  in  1897,  his  A.M.  at  Columbia 
University  in  1899  and  his  LL.B.  at  the  same  institution 
in  1902.  He  studied  in  the  Post-graduate  School  of  Phi 
losophy  at  Columbia  from  1902-5  and  was  secular  lecturer 
at  Temple  Emanu-El,  New  York  City,  for  the  same  period. 
Since  1906,  he  has  lectured  for  the  League  for  Political 
Education,  New  York  City,  for  the  University  Extension 
Center,  New  York  City,  and  since  1908  at  the  Brooklyn 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 

His  plays  are  Tristan  and  Isolde  (1904),  The  Em 
barrassment  of  Riches  (1906),  Anne  and  the  Arch-Duke 
John  (1907),  The  Woman  of  Impulse  (1909),  The  Glass 
House  (1912),  The  Washerwoman  Duchess  (1913),  Our 
Children  (1914),  The  Unchastened  Woman  (1915),  That 
Day  (1917),  The  Rape  of  Belgium  (1918),  Madame 
Cecile  (1918),  The  Dancer  (with  Max  Marcin,  1919), 
Daddalums  (England,  1919). 

The  Unchastened  Woman  was  first  produced  by  Oliver 
Morosco  at  the  39th  Street  Theatre,  New  York  City,  Octo 
ber  9,  1915,  with  Mr.  H.  Reeves-Smith  as  Hubert  Knollys 
and  Miss  Emily  Stevens  as  Caroline  Knollys. 


[Copyright,  1916,  by  Louis  Kaufman  Anspacher] 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

(Arranged  in  the  order  of  their  first  entrances.) 

HUBERT  KNOLLYS 

MRS.  MURTHA,  a  charwoman 

Miss  SUSAN  AMBIE 

CAROLINE  KNOLLYS,  wife  of  Hubert  Knollys 

LAWRENCE  SANBURY 

HlLDEGARDE    SANBURY,   hlS   wife 

Miss  EMILY  MADDEN 
MICHAEL  KRELLIN 

TIME:  The  Present 
PLACE:  New  York  City 


THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN 

ACT  I 

[The  play  opens  in  a  morning  in  October.  It  is  about  ten 
o'clock.  The  first  act  presents  the  drawing-room  of 
the  KXOLLYS'  house,  situated  on  a  corner  in  the  fashion 
able  fifties,  New  York  City.  The  room  is  spacious,  but 
a  little  old-fashioned.  Up  stage,  at  the  right,  is  a  large 
arch  opening  on  a  hall,  which  leads  out  to  the  front  door 
off  stage  at  the  right.  In  the  center  of  the  arch  there 
are  three  steps  leading  to  a  platform,  from  which  a 
flight  of  stairs  rises,  going  left,  and  leading  to  the 
rooms  above.  The  balustrade  continues  on  a  level  with 
the  stage,  and  indicates  that  the  stairs  lead  also  down 
ward  from  the  front  hall  to  the  basement. 

In  the  middle  of  the  right  wall  is  a  large  marble 
mantelpiece,  with  an  open  fireplace.  Above  the  mantel 
hangs  an  old  family  portrait.  On  the  wall  below  the 
mantel  hangs  an  ornamental  Venetian  mirror.  In  the 
rear  wall  of  the  room,  toward  the  left,  is  a  mahogany 
door,  leading  to  the  basement.  Between  this  door  and 
the  arch  stands  a  large  bookcase,  filled  with  books  in 
expensive  bindings.  The  left  wall  of  the  room  is 
pierced  by  two  large  windows,  with  practical  shades 
and  blinds. 

A  library  table  and  three  chairs  occupy  the  center 
of  the  room,  under  a  heavy  chandelier.  There  is  a 
large  divan  chair  with  cushions  and  a  foot-stool  placed 
down  left  of  the  room.  Set  on  an  angle  in  front  of 
the  fireplace  is  a  Davenport.  Below  this,  also  on  an 

361 


362  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

angle  is  a  settle.  Several  of  the  chairs  and  the  Daven 
port  are  covered  with  linen  slips  or  sheets,  which  indi 
cate  that  the  house  has  not  been  occupied  for  some 
time.  The  size  and  visible  appointments  of  the  room 
must  suggest  the  atmosphere  of  large,  though  rather 
formal,  luxury. 

The  curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage.  Dim  light  sifts 
through  the  closed  blinds.  There  is  a  pause,  and  then 
the  front  door  of  the  house  is  heard  to  open  and  close. 
A  moment  later  HUBERT  KNOLLYS  enters  from  the 
hall,  through  the  arch,  putting  his  keys  into  his  pocket. 
He  is  followed  by  MRS.  MURTHA.  HUBERT  KNOLLYS 
is  a  tall  and  distinguished  looking  man  of  fifty-three. 
He  is  dressed  in  a  morning  suit  and  a  Panama  hat.  He 
carries  a  whisky  and  a  couple  of  soda  bottles  under  his 
arm.  He  also  has  a  newspaper.  MRS.  MURTHA  is 
an  elderly  Irish  woman. ] 

HUBERT.  Phew !  It's  close  in  here !  [Goes  to  a  window 
which  he  opens  and  lets  in  the  sunlight,  then  he  turns  and 
looks  at  MRS.  MURTHA.]  Is  your  name  Agnes  Murtha? 

MURTHA.  No.  That's  me  daughter.  D'ye  see,  Agnes 
was  comin',  the  Lord  love  her,  but  she  had  a  fall  yisterday— 

HUBERT.     Oh,  too  bad. 

[He  begins  removing  the  slips  from  the  furniture. 

MURTHA.  [Undoing  her  bonnet  and  showing  her  white 
head.]  Yis— She's  a  foine  eddication,  so  she  has;  but  she 
bez  a  little  weak  in  th'  knee.  So  Oi  came  over  mesilf,  as 
soon  as  Oi  heard  from  Mrs.  Sanbury. 

HUBERT.  [Seeing  her  white  hair.]  Perhaps,  you're  not 
strong  enough — 

MURTHA.     Oi'm  as  shtrong  as  ivir  Oi  wuz. 
[She  energetically  takes  a  slip  from  a  piece  of  furniture. 

HUBERT.     The  whole  house  must  be  got  in  shape. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  363 

MURTHA.  Yis,  m'am.  [Awed.]  An'  do  yez  own  th' 
whole  house  entoire?  [He  nods  quizzically.]  Ah,  glory 
be  to  God  fer  that! 

HUBERT.     [Going  to  open  the  second  window.]     I'll  tend 

to  the  windows  on  this  floor.     [Looking  out,  then  turning.] 

Oh,  catch  that  ice-man  and  get  him  to  leave  a  piece  of  ice. 

MURTHA.     Now  do  you  be  shtandin'  there,  son,  so   he 

don't  get  away.     Oi'll  let  him  in. 

[She  starts  to  go  off  through  the  arch. 
HUBERT.     [Pointing  to  the  door.]     No,  this  way  through 
the  basement. 

MURTHA  scrambles  off  quickly.  HUBERT 
pauses,  looking  out,  sees  the  ice-man, 
whistles  and  gesticulates  to  him  to  wait 
and  go  down  into  the  house.  During  this, 
SUSAN  AMBIE  enters  from  the  hall  through 
the  arch.  SUSAN  2*  a  woman  of  forty- 
five.  She  has  the  soul  of  a  chaperon. 
She  enters  in  nervous  haste. 

HUBERT.  Why,  Miss  Ambie !  [Shaking  hands.]  Where's 
Caroline? 

SUSAN.  Get  your  hat  and  come  right  down  to  the  dock 
with  me. 

HUBERT.  I'm  never  missed  unless  there's  been  some 
trouble.  What  is  it? 

SUSAN.  Your  wife  has  been  grossly  insulted,  as  I  was ! 
It's  unheard  of ! 

HUBERT.  [Dawning.]  Ah  !  trouble  with  the  customs.  Is 
that  it? 

SUSAN.  [Indignantly.]  They  have  dared  to  suspect  us, 
your  wife  and  me ! 

HUBERT.     You  mean  they've  found  you  out.  You  too ! 
SUSAN.      I'm   not   speaking   for   myself.      When    I    saw 
they  were  going  to  be  disagreeable,  I  declared  everything. 


364,  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

But  suddenly  I  realized  that  a  vulgar  inspector  woman  had 
been  watching  Caroline.  I  saw  her  take  Carrie  off!  All 
your  wife's  trunks  are  held! 

HUBERT.     [Grimly  relieved.']     Good! 

SUSAN.  [Recoiling  with  a  stare.]  Carrie's  told  me 
many  things;  but  I  never  believed  that  you  could  be  so 
heartless ! 

HUBERT.  I've  been  prepared  for  this  for  many  years.  If 
she  will  do  things  in  her  own  high-handed  way,  she'll  have 
to  stand  the  consequences.  That's  why  I  never  meet  her. 

SUSAN.    Then  you  refuse  to  go  ? 

HUBERT.  I  refuse  to  be  made  a  cat's-paw.  That  is,  when 
I  can  help  it. 

SUSAN.    Oh! 

HUBERT.  What  is  there  for  me  to  do?  You  must  have 
made  false  declarations. 

SUSAN.  We  didn't  know  they'd  be  so  strict  with  us. 
We're  not  tradespeople  or  importers,  or — 

HUBERT.  No,  you're  worse.  Two  women  without  even 
the  wretched  excuse  of  poverty,  attempting  to  defraud  the 
government ! 

SUSAN.     Mr.  Knollys! 

HUBERT.     Ha!     The  cold  sweat  isn't  worth  the  money. 

[Wipes  his  brow. 

SUSAN.     I  don't  know  what  she'll  do! 

HUBERT.  She'll  come  home  chastened  in  spirit,  I  hope, 
after  having  profited  by  this  experience. 

SUSAN.     I  really  believe  you're  glad  she's  in  trouble ! 

HUBERT.  Not  that.  But  I  shall  be  glad  if  this  popula 
tion  of  a  hundred  million  citizens  in  their  corporate  capacity 
are  able,  for  once  in  her  life,  to  demonstrate  to  my  good 
wife  that  she  can't  do  everything  she  likes  with  everybody. 
I've  tried,  her  friends  have  tried,  society  has  tried,  perhaps 
the  government  will  succeed. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  365 

SUSAN.     Well,  if  I  can't  make  you  see  your  duty — 
HUBERT.      [Interrupting.]     The  question  of  my  duty  to 
my  wife  is  one  that   I  do  not  care  to   discuss  even  with 
you. 

SUSAN.    It's  none  of  my  business,  I  suppose     .    .    . 
HUBERT.     [Bluntly.]     Quite  so. 

SUSAN.  [Fixes  her  hat.}  Then  I'll  go  back  alone.  Car 
rie's  my  dearest  friend — [Then,  in  a  bravado  of  accusing 
tearfulness.]  And  I  can't  help  it  if  I'm  not  strong  enough 
to  stand  by  quietly  and  see  her  die  of  mortification! 

HUBERT.  [Sarcastically.]  You  might  advise  her  to  ap 
peal  to  them  for  clemency. 

SUSAN.     She  can't  find  less  of  it  there  than  here ! 

[He  turns  and  goes  up.  SUSAN  is  about  to 
exit  when  CAROLINE  KNOLLYS  enters  from 
the  hall.  CAROLINE  is  a  woman  of  forty, 
very  young  looking,  handsome,  command 
ing  and  self-possessed.  She  is  faultlessly 
gowned. 

SUSAN.     [With  a  cry.]     Oh,  Carrie! 

CAROLINE.     [Entering.]     Oh,  there  you  are,  Susan.    How 
are    you,    Hubert?      [Shakes    hands    with    him.      Then   to 
SUSAN.]     I  didn't  know  what  became  of  you. 
SUSAN.     I  came  right  here. 

CAROLINE.     You  should  have  told  me.     Ninette  and   I 
looked  every  place. 

SUSAN.     I  didn't  want  those  men  to  see  us  together. 
CAROLINE.    Nonsense ! 
SUSAN.     And  I  thought — 

CAROLINE.       [Interrupting.}       You  didn't  think.       You 
went  right  off  your  head. 

HUBERT.     [Expectantly}     Well? 

CAROLINE.      [To  HUBERT.]      You  seem  to  thrive  in  my 
absence.     [To  SUSAN.]     Doesn't  he? 


366  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HUBERT.     I  return  the  doubtful  compliment.     The  same 
to  you,  and  many  of  them. 

CAROLINE.     Thank  you.     [To  SUSAN.]  You  got  through 
quickly,  didn't  you? 

SUSAN.  When  I  saw  they  were  going  to  be  disagreeable, 
I  declared  everything. 

CAROLINE.    What ! 

SUSAN.    What  could  I  do? 

CAROLINE.  [Shrugging  her  shoulders.']  I  told  you  ex 
actly  what  to  do. 

SUSAN.     But  when  that  woman  searched  me,  I — 

CAROLINE.     You  lost  your  nerve. 

SUSAN.  Oh,  Carrie,  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.  What 
did  they  do  to  you  ? 

HUBERT.     [Expectantly.]     Yes,  what  did  they  do  to  you  ? 

CAROLINE.     To  me?     Why,  what's  the  matter? 

SUSAN.  [Relieved.]  Nothing,  dear,  if  you're  all  right. 
How  brave  you  are! 

CAROLINE.     Don't  be  absurd ! 

HUBERT.  [Breaking  in.]  I  should  hardly  call  it  bravery. 
This  was  bound  to  come  some  time.  I've  always  said  so. 
I've  always  feared  it. 

CAROLINE.     [Calmly.]     Feared  what? 
HUBERT.     Miss  Arabic's  told  me  everything! 
CAROLINE.     [With  a  sharp  look  at  SUSAN.]     Oh,  indeed! 
Then  there's  nothing  for  me  to  say.  [Rises  to  cross. 

HUBERT.  [Nettled.]  Caroline,  I  want  to  know  exactly 
what  has  happened;  so  if  there's  anything  that  can  be  done 

now,  I — 

CAROLINE.  [Sarcastically.]  My  dear  Hubert,  I'm  really 
sorry  to  disappoint  you ;  but  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 

HUBERT.    And  how  about  your  difficulty  with  the  trunks? 

CAROLINE.  [Smiling.]  Sorry  again.  There's  been  no 
difficulty. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  367 

HUBERT.     Then  why  did  you  send  for  me? 

CAROLINE.     I  didn't  send  for  you. 

HUBERT.     You  didn't !      [He  looks  at  SUSAN  inquiringly. 

SUSAN.     I  know,  but — 

CAROLINE.  Whenever  we  are  away  from  you,  Hubert, 
we  grow  so  accustomed  to  depend  on  the  chivalry  and  cour 
tesy  of  men,  that  on  our  return,  Susan  forgets,  and  has  to 
learn  her  lesson  of  self-dependence  over  again.  You  must 
forgive  her.  Really,  Susan,  you  gave  yourself  too  much 
concern. 

SUSAN.  My  dear,  I  was  so  frightened.  Didn't  that 
woman  search  you? 

CAROLINE.  Me?  Oh,  no!  I  very  soon  put  her  in  her 
place.  And  then,  besides,  I  was  careful  to  have  nothing 
dutiable  on  my  person. 

HUBERT.     Where  are  your  trunks? 

CAROLINE.  I  couldn't  carry  them  with  me,  all  nine  of 
them.  They'll  be  here  shortly,  I  suppose. 

[She  stands  before  the  Venetian  mirror,  takes 
off  her  hat  and  fixes  her  hair. 

HUBERT.  Caroline,  there's  been  quite  enough  of  this 
bantering.  Did  you  make  a  declaration? 

CAROLINE.     Sufficient  for  all  practical  purposes. 

HUBERT.     And  what  does  that  mean? 

CAROLINE.  I've  done  exactly  as  I've  always  done.  I 
refused  to  argue  the  matter.  I  settled.  Of  course,  as  the 
law  puts  a  premium  on  dishonesty,  I  found  it  expedient  to — 

HUBERT.     [Interrupting.']     To  what? 

CAROLINE.     [Smiling.]     To  pay  the  premium. 

HUBERT.  It  isn't  only  a  question  of  expediency.  It's 
downright  lying! 

CAROLINE.    [Sarcastically.']     Behold  the  moralist! 

HUBERT.  [Continuing.]  And  it's  a  question  of  decent, 
honest  citizenship ! 


368  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

CAROLINE.  But  I'm  not  a  citizen;  and  I  don't  care  to  be. 
If  you  were  honest,  you'd  confess  you're  only  irritated, 
Hubert,  because  you  can't  say:  "  I  told  you  so."  So  don't 
moralize;  it  doesn't  suit  you;  and  don't  talk  like  a  husband 
the  first  day  I  arrive.  That  doesn't  suit  me. 

[HUBERT  is  about  to  say  something,  but  is 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  MRS. 
MURTHA  from  the  basement.  CAROLINE 
looks  at  her  with  an  amused  smile. 

MURTHA.  Mr.  Knowllez,  the  motor-man  from  the  taxi- 
cab  is  ashkin'  if  you'll  be  wantin'  him  to  wait  any  longer. 

SUSAN.  Oh,  that's  my  cab !  He's  been  there  all  this 
time!  [She  flounces  to  the  hall. 

HUBERT.    Wait,  I'll— 

SUSAN.     [With  acerbity.']     No,  thank  you.  [Exits. 

MURTHA.  An'  th'  oice  man  will  be  wantin'  twinty  cints 
fer  th'  oice.  [To  CAROLINE.]  Shure,  it's  the  grand  box  ye 
have. 

HUBERT.  [Giving  her  money.]  Here.  [MURTHA  goes 
to  door.]  Oh,  you  can  fetch  up  some  glasses  now,  with  ice 
in  them;  if  you  will. 

MURTHA.    Yis,  sor.  [Exits  hastily. 

CAROLINE.     [Amazed.]     Where  did  you  get  her? 

HUBERT.  At  a  place  that  calls  itself  the  "  Co-operative 
Servant  Agency." 

CAROLINE.  That  must  be  the  new  name  for  the  "  Zoo." 
Have  you  a  match  ? 

HUBERT.    Yes. 

CAROLINE.  [Opening  her  cigarette  case.]  Will  you 
smoke  ? 

HUBERT.     Thank  you,  I  prefer  my  own. 

CAROLINE.     These  are  contraband. 

HUBERT.     The  kind  you  like. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  369 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

[He   strikes   a    match   for    CAROLINE.      She 

lights  her  cigarette. 

HUBERT.    Well,  didn't  you  have  a  good  time  abroad  ? 
CAROLINE.     Certainly. 

[He  sits  at  left  of  table,  and  lights  his  cigar 
ette.    She  sits  at  right. 

HUBERT.  But  you  changed  your  plans  rather  unex 
pectedly  ? 

CAROLINE.     I  hope  that  hasn't  inconvenienced  you. 

HUBERT.     Not  at  all. 

[SUSAN  enters  from  the  hall. 

SUSAN.     I  hate  America! 

HUBERT.       Eh? 

SUSAN.  When  you  sail  up  the  harbor  and  see  the  Statue 
of  Liberty,  you  feel  a  tremendous  emotion  of  patriotism; 
but  when  you  see  your  first  cab  charge,  you  want  to  turn 
around  and  go  right  back  to  Europe.  I  told  the  man  there 
was  something  the  matter  with  his  meter!  It  jumped  ten 
cents  while  I  was  arguing  with  him! 

CAROLINE.     Did  you  pay? 

SUSAN.     I  had  to! 

CAROLINE.  Then  don't  complain.  Pay  or  complain;  but 
don't  do  both.  It  isn't  economical. 

[MURTHA  enters,  carrying  three  glasses  awkwardly. 

MURTHA.    Here  ye  are,  Mr.  Knowllez ! 

[CAROLINE  opens  the  newspaper  on  the  table 
and  begins  to  read. 

HUBERT.     Thank  you,  that  will  do. 

MURTHA.  [Putting  down  the  glasses.]  Shure,  they'll 
do.  [She  suddenly  stares  as  she  sees  CAROLINE  smoking.]' 
Ah,  fer  th'  love  o'  God!  [CAROLINE  looks  up.  MURTHA 
continues:]  Shure,  Oi  do  be  fergittin'  mesilf  when  Oi  be 


370  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

passin'  rhemarks  wid  your  hushband.    [Catching  CAROLINE'S 
eye.]     Oh,  Lord,  yis,  m'am. 

[She  wilts  away  and  exits  to  basement. 
[HUBERT  opens  the  whisky  bottle. 

HUBERT.     Miss  Ambie,  will  you  have  a  Scotch  and  soda  ? 

SUSAN.    No,  thank  you,  it  always  makes  me  silly.     I'll  go 
directly  to  my  room. 

CAROLINE.     [Not  looking  up  from  the  newspaper.]     Take 
the  front  room  on  the  third  floor. 

SUSAN.     Don't  worry  about  me.     I'll  have  Ninette  ar 
range  your  things. 

CAROLINE.     [Turning  over  the  paper.]     Thank  you,  dear. 

[SusAN  exits  up  stairs. 

HUBERT.     She's  going  to  stay  here? 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

HUBERT.     Oh,  then,  in  that  case —     [He  ostentatiously 
doubles  his  drink.]     How  do  you  stand  her? 

CAROLINE.     She  pays  her  own  way  and  is  very  useful. 

HUBERT.      [Sarcastically.]      I  daresay;  but  to  me  she's 
simply  an  interfering  nuisance. 

[Pours  soda  into  his  whisky. 

CAROLINE.     [Still  reading.]     No.     She's  a  constitutional 
altruist.    That  is,  she  has  the  soul  of  a  servant. 

HUBERT.     A  scotch  and  soda? 

CAROLINE.     I  never  take  it  in  the  morning. 

HUBERT.     [Drinking.]     I  always  forget. 

CAROLINE.      [Looking    up.]      The    Homestead    stock    at 
sixty-four  ? 

HUBERT.     It  closed  at  seventy  yesterday. 

CAROLINE.    What  made  the  slump? 

HUBERT.     A  series  of  muck-raking  articles  about  Fac 
tory  Reform,  and  a  lot  of  talk  about  Child  Labor. 

CAROLINE.     I  hope  you're  not  embarrassed. 

HUBERT.    I've  got  to  keep  buying  in  to  steady  them. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  371 

CAROLINE.  [Putting  down  the  paper.]  I'll  lend  you, 
Hubert;  but  I  won't  invest. 

HJBERT.  [Ironically.]  Really,  Caroline,  your  gener 
osity  overwhelms  me. 

CAROLINE.     Not  at  all.     I  know  you  have  collateral. 

HUBERT.  I  still  hope  to  worry  along  without  placing 
myself  under  financial  obligations  to  you. 

CAROLINE.  [Placing  both  her  elbows  on  table  and  look 
ing  at  him  narrowly.]  Hubert,  I've  often  thought  you  re 
sented  my  having  independent  means. 

HUBERT.  It's  foolish  of  me;  but  I  believe  it  might  have 
made  some  difference  in  our  lives,  if  you'd  been — 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting.]  If  I'd  been  dependent  upon 
you  for  everything.  If  I  had  had  no  individuality  of  my 
own,  or  the  means  of  keeping  it  intact.  In  other  words, 
if  I'd  been  poor.  Is  that  what  you  mean? 

HUBERT.  No.  But  the  superfluous  wealth  you've  had  has 
deprived  us  both  of  at  least  one  of  the  real  things.  If  we'd 
been  poor  toegther,  there  might  have  been  something  in  our 
lives  .  .  .  something  we've  missed — something  at  any 
rate  I've  missed.  Some  mutality — some  interest  together. 
[Rising.]  Here  we  are,  two  people  who  have  lived  for 
twenty  odd  years  together,  and  who  have  never  really  had 
even  a  trouble  in  common! 

CAROLINE.  [With  a  remote  smile.]  What  trouble  would 
you  like  to  have  me  share  with  you?  [Pause. 

HUBERT.     [With  a  changed  tone.]     Oh,  none. 

CAROLINE.  [Laughing.]  Hubert,  don't  be  romantic 
toward  your  wife.  That's  waste.  You're  neither  old  enough 
nor  young  enough  to  play  that  sketch  convincingly.  You're 
neither  dawn  nor  twilight;  and  Romance  needs  something 
undiscovered,  something  in  possibility,  something  not  yet 
precipitated  into  noonday  commonplace  reality.  And  you 
and  I — we  know  too  much  about  each  other  to  really  carry 


372  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

that  off  without  laughing  in  our  sleeves.  You  say  it  isn't 
money.  Oh,  then  I  fear  something  has  gone  wrong  with 
some  object  of  your  affection. 

HUBERT.     Please ! 

CAROLINE.    Then  what  is  it? 

HUBERT.     I — I  was  about  to  speak  of  Elsie  and  Stephen. 

CAROLINE.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,  yes.  How  are  the  happy 
couple  ? 

HUBERT.  I'm  afraid  our  daughter's  not  very  happy. 
Stephen  is  a  fool. 

CAROLINE.     I  can't  help  that. 

HUBERT.     Have  Elsie  down  here  with  us  a  little  while — 

CAROLINE.     [Interrupting.']     Impossible ! 

HUBERT.     She  might  occupy  her  old  rooms. 

CAROLINE.    I  have  other  plans. 

HUBERT.    But  a  little  motherly  counsel  from  you  might — 

CAROLINE.  [Waving  the  discussion  aside.]  Oh,  Elsie 
and  Stephen  bore  me  to  extinction, — both  of  them.  I  did 
my  best  for  her — gave  her  a  coming  out,  a  season  in  New 
port  and — 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting.]  Then  married  her  off,  made 
her  a  settlement  and  got  rid  of  her.  Gad!  A  girl  of 
nineteen  married! 

CAROLINE.     How  old  was  I? 

HUBERT.     Well,  our  married  life  is  nothing  to  boast  of. 

CAROLINE.  Pardon,  my  dear  Hubert,  we've  made  a 
brilliant  success  of  marriage.  We  ought  to  be  grateful  to 
the  institution.  It  has  given  both  of  us  the  fullest  liberty — 
a  liberty  that  I've  enjoyed;  and  you've — 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting.]  Yes,  you've  always  done  ex 
actly  what  you  wanted. 

CAROLINE.      [Meaningly.]     And  you? 

HUBERT.  It  makes  no  difference  where  we  begin,  we 
always  wind  up  at  the  same  place;  don't  we? 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  373 

CAROLINE.     Because  you  have  abused  your  liberty. 

HUBERT.  Yes,  I  admit,  it's  my  fault — if  you  like,  all 
my  fault.  It's  useless  to  go  back  over  the  old  ruptures 
and  recriminations.  The  prime  mistake  in  both  our  lives 
was  that  we  ever  married.  Well,  we  did.  After  about  two 
years  of  doves,  we  had  several  years  of  cat  and  dog — and — 

CAROLINE.  I  beg  your  pardon,  in  which  class  of  animals 
do  you  place  me? 

HUBERT.  We  won't  quarrel  about  the  phrase.  You  re 
fused  divorce  or  separation  at  a  time  in  life  when  we  might 
have  got  one  without  making  ourselves  ridiculous. 

CAROLINE.  Divorce  is  always  ridiculous.  I  made  up  my 
mind  you'd  never  get  free  for  anything  I  should  do. 

HUBERT.  Yes,  you've  always  been  very  careful  about 
that.  It  isn't  morality;  but  you  never  cared  to  relinquish 
an  advantage.  You  refused  divorce  for  your  own  reasons; 
and  I  agreed  with  you  for  Elsie's  sake.  Then  Elsie  mar 
ried — a  great  relief  to  you;  and  we  both  agreed  that  the 
altitude  of  ideal  husband  and  wife  was  too  high  for  me 
to  breathe  in.  You  never  cared  about  me;  yet  you  were 
always  very  anxious  that  nobody  else  should.  In  the  real 
significance  of  marriage,  you  have  broken  all  your  vows 
but  one.  I  have  kept  all  my  vows, — 

CAROLINE.      [Sharply.]      Eh? 

HUBERT.     But  one. 

CAROLINE.     Ah ! 

HUBERT.  [Continuing.]  That  one  violation  of  mine  has 
given  you  the  whip  hand  over  me  for  these  long  years. 

CAROLINE.     Have  you  broken  with  that  woman? 

HUBERT.     What  woman? 

CAROLINE.     That  Madden  woman — Emily  Madden. 

HUBERT.     You  know  nothing  whatever  about  her. 

CAROLINE.  Pardon,  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  gather  all 
the  intimate  details. 


374  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HUBERT.     Indeed? 

CAROLINE.  And  my  friends  have  seen  you  every  place 
with  her.  That's  all  I  really  care  about. 

HUBERT.  And  they  will  continue  to  see  us;  whenever 
Miss  Madden  does  me  the  honor  to  accompany  me. 

CAROLINE.  [Resuming  her  newspaper.]  Oh,  very  well. 
I  shall  continue  to  condone  everything;  because  I  do  not 
wish  the  elaborate  structure  I  have  built  for  many  years 
to  be  destroyed.  Our  marriage  stands  as  a  temple  to  the 
Gods  of  Convention.  The  priests  are  hypocrites;  but  be 
careful  not  to  make  the  congregation  laugh.  That's  all  I 
ask  of  you.  Quite  simple,  isn't  it? 

HUBERT.     Yes,  simple  as  all  heartless  things  are. 
[Pause.     She     reads.     HUBERT  walks  up  as  SUSAN  AMBIE 
enters  from  up  stairs. 

SUSAN.  Carrie,  I  tried  to  'phone  the  Intelligence  Offices ; 
but  your  'phone  isn't  connected. 

[She  looks  accusingly  at  HUBERT. 

HUBERT.  [Irritated.]  Excuse  me.  [Goes  to  door,  then 
turns.]  Oh,  Miss  Ambie,  there's  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  for 
the  first  good  news  that  you  announce.  [Exits. 

SUSAN.  [Sentimentally.]  I  can  see  by  your  face,  dear, 
you've  had  a  scene. 

CAROLINE.     No.     Just  our  annual  understanding. 

SUSAN.  [Curiously.]  You  don't  have  to  tell  me,  Carrie. 
[Pause.]  Has  he  broken  with  that  Madden  woman? 

CAROLINE.     [Smiling.]     I  hope  not. 

SUSAN.  It's  wonderful  that  all  this  hasn't  made  you 
bitter. 

CAROLINE.  Bitter?  [Laughing.]  I  am  very  grateful 
to  Miss  Madden. 

SUSAN.  [Quickly.]  Oh,  Carrie,  you  didn't  tell  him  that, 
did  you? 

CAROLINE.      [Laughs.]     Oh,  dear  no!     I  never  let  him 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  375 

forget  that  at  any  moment  I  could  name  Miss  Madden  as  a 
co-respondent.     She  is  a  weapon  in  my  hands. 

SUSAN.  [Admiringly.']  What  a  wonderful  person  you 
are !  Only — 

CAROLINE.     Only  what? 

SUSAN.  Only  be  careful,  dear.  Don't  give  him  a  weapon 
against  you. 

CAROLINE.     In  what  way? 

SUSAN.  Of  course  you'd  never  think  about  it;  and  it's 
quite  as  well  you  shouldn't,  as  long  as  I  can  do  that  for 
you.  But  be  careful,  dear,  about  Lawrence  Sanbury. 

CAROLINE.  Don't  be  absurd.  You  were  practically  al 
ways  with  me. 

SUSAN.  [With  a  nervous  whimper.}  Oh,  no,  I  failed 
you,  Carrie;  I  should  have  dragged  along  no  matter  how 
ill  I  was. 

CAROLINE.     [Bluntly.']     Get  that  idea  out  of  your  head. 
SUSAN.      But   if   he   should   ever   learn   about   your   last 
days  alone  with  Lawrence  in  the  mountains 
CAROLINE.     He'll  never  learn  it. 
SUSAN.     And  there  is  a  Mrs.  Sanbury,  too ! 
CAROLINE.       [Impatiently.']       Of    course!      Susan,    I've 
known   artists   all  my  life,  and   I've  never  had   to  bother 
with  their  wives ;  at  least     . 

[MURTHA  enters  excitedly  from  the  hall. 
CAROLINE.    \Vould  you  mind  knocking  on  the  door  before 
you  enter  a  room? 

MURTHA.     [Pointing  innocently  to  the  arch.]     But  there 
isn't  any  door,  me  dear. 
CAROLINE.     What  is  it? 

MURTHA.     Me  great  friend  and  sishter,  Mrs.  Sanbury, 
is  here  wid  her  hushband !    They  be  a  wantin'  to  see  you ! 
SUSAN.      [Frightened.']      She's   here! 
CAROLINE.     Tell  them  I'm  at  home. 


376  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

MURTHA.     [Going  to  the  arch.]     Why  wouldn't  you  be? 
Shure,  Oi  told  thim  that  already. 

SUSAN.     [Anxiously.]     Oh,  Carrie!    She's  here! 
CAROLINE.     [Secretly.]     Don't  be  an  ass! 
MURTHA.     [Calling  out  into  the  hall.]     Come,  Lord  bless 
yer  lovin'  hearts!     It's  roight  in  here,  yer  to  come!     [Re- 
entering.]      Shure   Oi'd   trust   her   wid   a   million   dollars. 
It  was  Mrs.  Sanbury,  it  was,  that  sint  me  to  you. 
CAROLINE.     Oh,  I've  her  to  thank  for  you,  have  I? 
MURTHA.     Yis,  m'am.     Shure  ye  have. 

[LAWRENCE  and  HILDEGARDE  SANBURY  enter 
from  the  hall.  He  is  a  handsome  vital 
looking  man  of  twenty-five.  He  has  a 
quick  and  ingenuous,  volatile  manner. 
HILDEGARDE,  his  wife,  is  a  woman  of 
thirty,  of  sympathetic  and  responsive 
nature,  full  of  exuberant  gratitude  to 
CAROLINE,  whom  she  has  never  met.  In 
dress  HILDEGARDE  is  the  exact  opposite 
of  CAROLINE.  She  is  scrupulously  neat, 
but  CAROLINE  is  a  perfect  conscience  of 
every  allure  of  fashion.  They  enter  fol 
lowed  by  MURTHA,  who  goes  up  rear. 
LAWRENCE  nods  to  SUSAN. 

CAROLINE.      [To   HILDEGARDE.]      I'm  very   glad   you've 
come. 

LAWRENCE.     Hildegarde,  this  is  Mrs.  Knollys. 

[HUBERT  enters  quietly  from  the  door  lead 
ing    to   the    basement.      He   is    unnoticed 
amid  the  greetings.    He  goes  nonchalantly 
towards  window  at  left. 
HILDEGARDE.     When  I  heard  Larrie  was  coming  to  you, 
I  just  couldn't  stay  at  home. 

LAWRENCE.    She  wouldn't.    So  we — 

' 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  377 

HILDEGARDE.  [Interrupting.]  Oh,  Larrie,  you  must  let 
me  speak!  You've  had  Mrs.  Knollys  all  to  yourself  for 
six  long  weeks — [HUBERT  turns  as  LAWRENCE  goes  to 
SUSAN.]  You  see  I've  heard  so  much  about  you.  Larrie 
wrote  me  reams  and  reams  of  letters  right  from  the  be 
ginning. 

CAROLINE.     [Purringly.]     Yes. 

HILDEGARDE.  Oh,  yes !  I've  followed  you  every  step 
you've  taken. 

[SusAN  looks  anxious  and  laughs  a  little  hysterically. 

CAROLINE.     [Noticing  HUBERT'S  presence.]     Indeed! 

HILDEGARDE.  [Seeing  CAROLINE'*  face  change.]  I  hope 
we  haven't  intruded ! 

CAROLINE.  Not  at  all.  Oh,  Hubert,  let  me  present  you 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sanbury. 

HUBERT.     Ah !     How  do  you  do  ? 

[They  exchange  greetings. 

CAROLINE.  I've  persuaded  Mr.  Sanbury  to  accept  the 
commission  to  remodel  the  house. 

HUBERT.     [Surprised.]     Oh,  have  you !     [Pause.] 

HILDEGARDE.  [Continuing  to  CAROLINE.]  Oh,  it  was 
wonderful  for  Larrie  to  be  with  you.  You  were  eyes  to  him 
in  Italy. 

CAROLINE.  Let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Ambie.  [Point 
edly.]  She  was  with  us  too. 

[HUBERT  notes  this  closely,  though  seeming 
not  to  listen. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Surprised.]  Oh,  were  you?  [Goes  im 
mediately  to  SUSAN.]  Larrie  wrote  me  you  were  taken  ill 
in  Switzerland,  and  that  he  and  Mrs.  Knollys  went  on 
alone. 

SUSAN.  [Nervously.]  Oh,  dear  no.  I  mean  ...  I 
...  It  was  really  nothing  serious. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  hope  you've  recovered. 


378  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

SUSAN.  Oh,  perfectly,  thank  you.  I  didn't  miss  much 
of  the  trip  .  .  .  You  see  it  was  really  only  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.  [Seeing  HUBERT'S  eye  on  them.]  Oh,  Susan, 
it's  nearly  twelve.  [To  the  others.]  Excuse  me.  [Again 
to  SUSAN.]  You  might  hail  a  taxi  and  settle  the  matter 
of  servants  for  me. 

SUSAN.     [Anxiously.]     Yes,  yes,  but  hadn't  I  better — ? 

CAROLINE.  [Decisively,  Agoing  to  the  hall  with  SUSAN.] 
The  club  for  luncheon.  One  o'clock.  [SUSAN  exits. 

MURTHA.  [Coming  up  from  rear.]  Ah,  it  do  be  good 
to  see  thim  together  again,  eh? 

CAROLINE.     Did  you  want  to  ask  me  anything? 

MURTHA.  If  it's  a  chambermaid  ye  want,  me  daughter 
Agnes — 

CAROLINE.     Would  you  mind  closing  the  door? 

MURTHA.     Ah,  not  at  all. 

[She  crosses  and  closes  the  door,  then  returns. 

CAROLINE.     [Cuttingly.]     I  mean  behind  you. 

MURTHA.  [Catching  CAROLINE'S  eye  and  meaning.]  Oh, 
yis,  m'am.  [She  exits. 

CAROLINE.  [Motioning  HILDEGARDE  to  a  chair.]  Do  I 
understand  you  run  an  Intelligence  Office? 

HILDEGARDE.  I've  organized  a  general  employment 
bureau  in  connection  with  the  tenements. 

LAWRENCE.  But,  my  dear,  it's  hardly  fair  to  Mrs. 
Knollys  to  send  this  old — 

HILDEGARDE.  [Interrupting.]  We  sent  her  daughter 
Agnes.  You  understand,  only  the  derelicts  come  to  us; 
but  you'll  see,  Mrs.  Murtha  will  do  her  work  well. 

CAROLINE.  Tell  me,  do  you  really  live  among  these 
people? 

HILDEGARDE.  Yes,  at  the  model  tenement.  Have  you 
ever  seen  one? 

CAROLINE.     No! 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  379 

HILDEGARDE.     I'd  be  delighted  to  show  you  around. 
CAROLINE.     Yes.     Miss  Ambie  and   I   will  come  some 
time  together. 

HILDEGARDE.  Do,  and  take  luncheon  with  us  at  our  co 
operative  dining-room. 

LAWRENCE.  [To  CAROLINE.]  I  wouldn't  expect  too 
much.  You  see,  it's  a  fad  of  hers — Democracy  and  the 
Underdog. 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  no,  that's  my  real  work. 

HUBERT.      [Coming  into  the  conversation.]     What? 

HILDEGARDE.  We  believe  in  giving  the  poor  people 
better  living  conditions  first;  so  that  then  they  will  be 
better  able  to  fight  for  other  things. 

HUBERT.  Yes,  and  make  them  discontented  all  along  the 
line. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Fervently.]  If  only  we  could  make  them 
sufficiently  discontented ! 

HUBERT.  [Taking  up  the  newspaper.]  I  should  say 
you  were  succeeding  very  well.  Have  you  seen  this  series 
of  furious  articles  on  Factory  Reform? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Looking  at  paper.]     Yes. 

HUBERT.     What  do  you  think  of  them? 

HILDEGARDE.     I  ought  to  approve  of  them. 

HUBERT.     WThy? 

HILDEGARDE.     Because  I  wrote  them. 

HUBERT.      [Amazed.]      What!     You? 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes.     They're  mine. 

HUBERT.  You  label  these  articles  reform,  but  they  read 
pretty  much  like  anarchy  to  me. 

HILDEGARDE.  Do  you  know  about  our  present  factory 
conditions  ? 

HUBERT.  [Grimly.]  Somewhat,  to  my  cost.  You've 
made  me  one  of  your  horrible  examples. 

HILDEGARDE.     What ! ! 


380  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HUBERT.  I  own  the  majority  stock  in  the  Homestead 
Mills. 

LAWRENCE.  [Nervously.']  Good  Lord,  Hildegarde ! 
Your  crowd  haven't  been  attacking  Mr.  Knollys,  have  they  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  LAWRENCE.]  No  one  was  mentioned 
by  name.  [To  HUBERT.]  Your  manager  refused  to  show 
his  stock  sheet  to  our  committee;  so  we  simply  wrote  up 
the  mill. 

HUBERT.  Our  manager  has  to  compete  with  others.  We 
give  these  people  work.  We  don't  force  our  hands  to  come 
to  us. 

HILDEGARDE.  That's  it.  The  whole  system  is  wrong. 
The  state  must  remedy  it.  Individuals  can't.  You've  got 
to  resort  to  the  means  of  your  lowest  and  most  unscrupulous 
competitor;  or  leave  the  field. 

HUBERT.     Do  you  mind  answering  a  few  questions? 

HILDEGARDE.     Not  at  all. 

HUBERT.  [To  CAROLINE  and  LAWRENCE.]  Excuse  us. 
[He  and  HILDEGARDE  go  toward  the  hall.  He  takes  some 
clippings  from  his  pocket.]  In  the  first  place  you 


stated    .    .    . 

[They    exit    and    pass    out    of    sight,    going 

toward  the  right,  in  earnest  conversation. 

CAROLINE   is   sitting   in    the    large    divan 

chair    at     the    left.       LAWRENCE     comes 

toward  her. 

LAWRENCE. 

[Enthusiastically.]     Isn't  she  splendid! 

CAROLINE. 

[Softly  ironical.]      You  treat  us  all  alike; 

don't  you? 

LAWRENCE. 

How? 

CAROLINE. 

[Quietly.]      She,   too,    is    older   than   you. 

Isn't  she? 

LAWRENCE. 

Oh,  a  year  or  two.     That  doesn't  matter. 

CAROLINE. 

How  chivalrous  you  are.    But  for  your  sake, 

she  ought  to  be  wiser. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  381 

LAWRENCE.     What  do  you  mean? 

CAROLINE.  Her  radical  theories  about  Democracy  and 
— the  great  Unwashed.  .  .  .  Do  you  agree  with  them? 

LAWRENCE.     I'm  an  artist.     I  take  no  side  whatever. 

CAROLINE.    But  don't  you  see,  you'll  have  to  take  a  side  ? 

LAWRENCE.    Why? 

CAROLINE.  People  of  our  class  won't  support  you,  if 
your  wife  attacks  the  very  sources  from  which  they  pay 
you. 

LAWRENCE.  [With  sudden  anxiety. ~\  Oh,  perhaps  Mr. 
Knollys  will  resent  what  Hildegarde  has  done,  and  won't 
care  to  give  me  the  work.  Is  that  what  you  mean? 

CAROLINE.  I  mean  your  wife  mustn't  add  to  my  diffi 
culties. 

LAWRENCE.  [Sincerely  distressed.]  Oh,  Lord!  In 
wrong  the  first  crack  out  of  the  box;  and  I  wanted  you  so 
much  to  like  each  other ! 

CAROLINE.    Tell  me, — is  she  really  as  frank  as  she  seems  ? 

LAWRENCE.     Why,  yes.     What  makes  you  ask  that? 

CAROLINE.  I  was  a  little  startled  when  I  learned  you'd 
written  her  so  definitely  about  our  tour  in  Italy. 

LAWRENCE.  [Relieved.]  Oh,  that's  all  right.  Hilde 
garde  thinks  nothing  about  that. 

CAROLINE.  But  she  mustn't  give  everybody  credit  for  so 
much  sympathetic  understanding. 

[With  a  glance  toward  the  hall. 

LAWRENCE.     You  mean  your  husband ! 

CAROLINE.  [Quickly.]  Don't  speak  so  loudly !  [With 
a  change  to  a  seductive,  problematical  manner.]  I  haven't 
told  you  everything  about  my  life.  I  thought  you  guessed. 

LAWRENCE.  Why,  surely,  he  wouldn't  dare  to  misjudge 
you,  would  he? 

CAROLINE.  We  move  in  a  society  that  does  not  trust 
itself,  so  it  is  always  suspicious. 


382  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

LAWRENCE.  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me.  I'm  just  a  fool 
about  these  things. 

CAROLINE.  [Seeing  HUBERT  and  HILDEGARDE  approach 
ing.']  Pst!  Say  nothing  more. 

HUBERT.  [Re-entering  from  the  hall."]  [To  HILDE 
GARDE.]  If  I'm  on  top,  I  know  I'll  treat  the  laborer  as 
well  as  I  can  afford.  If  he's  on  top,,  I  can't  expect  so  much 
in  return.  They  get  a  living  wage. 

HILDEGARDE.  You'd  better  take  a  trip  down  South  and 
see  how  well  they  live. 

HUBERT.  Perhaps  I  shall.  And  then  I'll  want  to  see  you 
again. 

HILDEGARDE.  Do!  [To  the  others."]  Until  then  we 
part,  good,  class-conscious,  cordial  enemies. 

HUBERT.  [Pointing  to  the  newspaper.^  Very  well. 
And  how  about  these  articles  ? 

HILDEGARDE.     To-morrow  we  begin  on  your  competitors. 

HUBERT.     Good !     That's  fair  play. 

CAROLINE.  Hubert,  would  you  mind  showing  Mr.  San- 
bury  about  the  house? 

HUBERT.     Now? 

CAROLINE.     Yes.     Mrs.  Sanbury  will  remain  with  me. 

[HILDEGARDE  nods. 

HUBERT.     We'll  go  this  way. 

LAWRENCE.    Excuse  me. 

[LAWRENCE   and  HUBERT   exit   through   hall 
and  are  seen  mounting  the  stairs. 

CAROLINE.  [Points  to  a  chair  in  the  full  light.~\  You 
don't  mind  the  light? 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  not  at  all. 

CAROLINE.  [Speaking  as  she  pulls  up  the  shade  full 
upon  HILDEGARDE.]  I'm  sure  we  shall  understand  each 
other  thoroughly;  because  we  both  want  your  husband  to 
succeed. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  383 

HILDEGARDE.  It's  fine  of  you  to  be  so  interested.  He's 
never  had  a  chance  to  prove  what  he  can  do. 

CAROLINE.  [Sitting  "with  her  back  to  the  light.]  My 
interest  will  excuse  many  personal  questions.  [Charm 
ingly.]  He  being  so  young,  we  can  discuss  him  and  his 
future  from  the  same  point  of  view. 

HILDEGARDE.  Yes,  Larrie  for  all  his  twenty-five  years 
is  just  a  great  big  boy. 

CAROLINE.  How  did  you  come  to  live  there  in  the  tene 
ments? 

HILDEGARDE.     Surely  Larrie  has  told  you! 

CAROLINE.  But  I  never  trust  a  husband  to  tell  me  all 
about  his  home.  [Insinuatingly.]  If  the  wife  loves  him 
very  much,  he  never  really  knows  his  circumstances. 

HILDEGARDE.  We've  had  no  secrets  from  each  other. 
We  struggled  on  together  right  from  the  beginning.  I 
sometimes  got  disheartened,  but  Larrie  never  did. 

CAROLINE.     Ah!     Did  he  decide  to  live  there? 

HILDEGARDE.  No.  I  lived  there  first,  and  when  we  mar 
ried,  we  decided  to  settle  there  together,  so  I  might  con 
tinue  my  work. 

CAROLINE.  But  do  you  think  the  tenement  is  quite  the 
— ah — the  atmosphere  for  him  to  work  in? 

HILDEGARDE.  He  hasn't  complained ;  and  offices  cost  lots 
of  money. 

CAROLINE.     Yes. 

HILDEGARDE.  Your  commission  will  enable  him  to  start 
in  business  for  himself;  and  then  we  hope  to  afford  a 
better  place. 

CAROLINE.  Yes.  But  have  you  ever  considered  how  your 
very  work  in  the  world  might  hinder  him? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Puzzled.]     In  what  way? 

CAROLINE.  Art  has  always  been  the  luxury  of  a  leisure 
class.  It  has  always  been  supported  b'y  the  patronage 


384  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

of  wealth;  and  you  can't  expect  that  the  people  whom 
you  attack,,  and  publicly  attack,  are  going  to  reply  by  using 
their  influence  to  promote  your  husband. 

HILDEGARDE.  Then  Lawrence  must  work  his  way  with 
out  their  influence. 

CAROLINE.  [With  narrowing  eyes.']  In  the  school  of 
adversity,,  eh? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Proudly.]  That  school  has  brought  out 
the  best  in  many  artists ! 

CAROLINE.  And  has  killed  thousands  of  others  that  we 
never  hear  of.  My  dear,  the  school  of  adversity  is  a  very 
good  school;  provided  you  don't  matriculate  too  early  and 
continue  too  long. 

.  HILDEGARDE.  I'd  rather  continue  just  as  we  are  now  to 
the  end  of  our  days,  than  have  him  sell  his  soul  and  aban 
don  all  he's  stood  for. 

CAROLINE.     You  would;  but  how  about  him? 

HILDEGARDE.     He  would  too  ! 

CAROLINE.     Perhaps  I  know  him  better  than  you  do. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  don't  think  so. 

CAROLINE.  Then  some  day,  you  may  have  to  reproach 
yourself  for  his  failure. 

HILDEGARDE.    I? 

CAROLINE.     Yes. 

HILDEGARDE.     Why  should  he  fail? 

CAROLINE.  Just  because  of  his  unusual  qualities.  The 
world  at  best  is  a  cruel  place.  It  gives  its  prizes  to  the 
ordinary.  It  martyrizes  the  exceptional  person,  because 
it  doesn't  understand  him,  and  what  it  doesn't  understand,  it 
fears;  and  what  it  fears,  it  destroys,  or  worse  than  that,  it 
allows  to  die  unnoticed.  The  world  will  make  your  husband 
suffer,  just  because  he  is  exceptional. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  can't  believe  that! 

CAROLINE.       [Sarcastically.]      One    must   indeed    be    an 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  385 

optimist  to  be  a  fanatic.  With  your  help  I  hoped  to  place 
him  where  I  know  he  belongs.  But  I  cannot ;  if  you  oppose 
it.  [Pause.] 

HILDEGARDE.     I  don't  see  how  7  stand  in  his  way ! 

CAROLINE.  You  have  already  made  a  difficulty  with  my 
husband. 

HILDEGARDE.     How? 

CAROLINE.  My  dear,  you  can  hardly  expect  my  husband 
to  give  your  husband  an  expensive  commission;  when  you 
spend  your  time  writing  articles  that  lower  the  value  of 
the  most  important  investment  he  holds. 

HILDEGARDE.     Then  Lawrence  will  have  to  choose. 

CAROLINE.  Oh,  no.  You  mustn't  put  that  on  him.  You 
mustn't  bind  him  by  his  love  for  you.  For  if  he  fails  to 
choose  properly,  you  will  be  forced  to  bear  the  burden  of 
his  bitterness.  And  there's  nothing  so  bitter  in  the  world  as 
an  artist's  bitterness.  [Looking  at  her  closely.]  It  won't 
come  now.  I  grant  you  a  few  years  more  of  his  hopeful 
illusions  and  youthful  courage;  but  then  your  awakening 
will  come  .  .  .  when  you  are  gray — at  heart,  and  he 
still  in  his  prime ;  but  with  the  sources  of  his  faith  run  dry 
— eaten  with  disappointments,  sick  with  postponements,  his 
inspiration  festered  by  discouragement ;  while  he  still  knocks 
listlessly  at  the  doors,  which  would  be  open  to  him  now; 
but  will  be  closed  hereafter,  when  his  opportunities  have 
passed  him  by. 

HILDEGARDE.     That  can't  be  true ! 

CAROLINE.  [Continuing  ruthlessly.]  And  in  the  cruel 
retrospect,  then  his  awakening  will  come;  and  he  will  see 
that  it  has  been  [Cynically]  what  you  call  your  "  life-work  " 
that  has  hindered  him.  And  then,  what  will  his  love  for  you 
be  worth  to  you  or  him? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Obstinately.]  He  has  his  work,  I  have 
mine.  It's  for  him  to  choose. 


386  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

CAROLINE.  And  is  your  muck-raking  worth  his  career? 
Knowing  that  he  loves  you  now,  and  will  be  influenced  by 
you,  have  you  a  right  to  make  him  choose? 

HILDEGARDE.     No  more  than  you! 

CAROLINE.  There  is  this  difference: — /  do  it  for  his  sake 
purely. 

HILDEGARDE.     So  do  I ! 

CAROLINE.     I  doubt  it. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Passionately.']  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  easier  for  me  to  see  him  settled?  I've  walked  the  floor 
at  night!  I've  agonized  over  his  career,  while  he's  been 
sleeping  like  a  child ! 

CAROLINE.  [Quickly.']  Ah,  then  there  have  been 
secrets ! 

HILDEGARDE.  [Continuing. ,~]  Yes!  I've  made  it  a  point 
of  honor  not  to  allow  him  to  spend  one  cent  on  me ! 
[Suddenly.']  You're  looking  at  this  dress !  I  know  it's 
shabby — You've  noticed  it — He  hasn't  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.  My  dear,  you  mustn't  feel  sensitive  about 
your  clothes! 

HILDEGARDE.  [Choking  back  her  tears.~\  It's  the  first 
time  that  I  ever  was ! 

CAROLINE.  You  must  let  me  give  you  a  gown  or 
two. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Recoiling.']  Oh,  no!  I  couldn't  accept 
them — I  couldn't! 

CAROLINE.     But,  my  dear — 

HILDEGARDE.     [Proudly.]     Excuse  me,  don't  presume ! 

CAROLINE.  I  hoped  you'd  understand.  Your  husband's 
profession  has  a  social  side.  There  are  people  he  must 
meet — people  that  will  be  of  use  to  him.  I  want  to  ar 
range  it.  You  won't  object? 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  no! 

CAROLINE.     It's  always  easy  for  a  man — a  dress  suit  and 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  387 

there  you  are.     But  we  women  are  at  a  disadvantage  with 
out  the  proper  equipment,  and     .    .    . 

HILDEGARDE.  Please  leave  me  out  of  all  your  calcula 
tions.  I  shan't  complicate  matters. 

CAROLINE.  My  dear,  I  merely  intended  to  save  you 
from  embarrassment. 

HILDEGARDE.  I  am  very  grateful.  But  I  repeat,  it's 
impossible  I  should  accept  anything  from  you.  We  belong 
to  two  totally  different  orders. 

CAROLINE.  Then  as  you're  unwilling  to  meet  the  social 
requirements,  you  will  understand  perfectly,  if  you're  not 
included  in  ... 

HILDEGARDE.  Certainly.  I  shall  not  expect  to  be  in 
vited. 

CAROLINE.  I  must  compliment  you,  Mrs.  Sanbury. 
You're  stronger  than  I  thought  you  were. 

[Pause.  The  two  women  look  at  each  other. 
HILDEGARDE  is  dazed.  CAROLINE  is  smil 
ingly  confident. 

LAWRENCE.  [Coming  down  stairs.']  We'll  have  a  jolly 
job  introducing  Queen  Victoria  to  the  Renaissance.  You've 
plenty  of  room;  that  is,  if  you'll  let  me  smash  the  conven 
tional  partitions. 

CAROLINE.  [Meaningly.]  I  always  like  to  smash  con 
ventional  partitions;  provided  the  outside  walls  remain  in 
tact.  Have  you  explained  to  Hubert? 

LAWRENCE.     He  couldn't  follow  the  sketch. 

CAROLINE.  [With  a  veiled  sneer.']  You'll  have  to  build 
models  before  he  can  see. 

LAWRENCE.  [After  a  slight  hesitation.]  Will  you  really 
need  models  ? 

CAROLINE.    I  am  afraid  so.    How  long  would  it  take  you? 

LAWRENCE.  Well,  you  know,  I've  left  my  old  firm;  and 
I'll  first  have  to  look  about  for  larger  quarters. 


388  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HILDEGARDE.     [Involuntarily.]     Oh! 

LAWRENCE.  [Confidently.]  I've  been  thinking  of  chang 
ing.  It's  only  been  a  question  of  the  proper  place. 

CAROLINE.  [Knowingly  smiling  at  HILDEGARDE.]  Oh, 
of  course.  But  I've  an  idea.  In  insisting  upon  models,  I 
appreciate  I  am  asking  the  unusual ;  but  I  want  to  expedite 
matters. 

LAWRENCE.    Yes    .    .    .    Yes    .    .    . 

CAROLINE.     You've  seen  the  fourth  storey? 

LAWRENCE.     Yes. 

CAROLINE.     Couldn't  you  build  your  models  there? 

LAWRENCE.  [Eagerly.]  Splendidly!  [Relieved.]  That 
would  solve  everything;  wouldn't  it,  Hildegarde?  [To 
CAROLINE.]  And  I  could  consult  with  you  at  every  step. 

CAROLINE.  Yes.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  And  in  that  way, 
we  needn't  interfere  with  your  plans  at  the  tenement. 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh ! 

CAROLINE.  Perhaps  you'd  better  advise  with  your  wife 
before  you  decide.  I'll  speak  with  Hubert.  Excuse  me. 

[She  exits  through  the  hall. 

LAWRENCE.  [Watches  her  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 
As  soon  as  she  is  off,  his  manner  changes,  and  he  comes  to 
HILDEGARDE  in  hushed  excitement.  He  takes  her  hands 
and  speaks  quickly.]  I'm  glad,  old  girl,  you  didn't  butt 
into  any  of  nay  bluffs!  I  got  a  cold  sweat  when  she  spoke 
about  models!  [Wiping  his  brow.]  Phew!  That  was  a 
poser!  But  did  you  see  me  do  it?  [Imitating  his  former 
manner.]  "  Just  looking  for  a  proper  place."  [With  a 
flourish  of  his  hand.]  Money  no  object.  Did  you  see  me? 
With  not  enough  to  the  good  to  keep  the  sheriff  off  any 
place  for  a  single  month!  [Sitting.]  That  fourth  storey 
is  too  good  to  be  true!  [Devoutly.]  God  bless  the  ugliness 
of  Queen  Victoria !  God  bless  the  rich  with  big  houses  and 
small  families  !  Don't  wake  me ! 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN 

HILDEGARDE.  Then  you're  going  to  accept  her  top 
floor  ? 

LAWRENCE.  [Flabbergasted  to  an  echo.]  Am  I  going 
to  accept  her  .  .  .?  Watch  me!  I've  never  told  you;; 
but  I  haven't  been  able  to  work  there  in  the  tenements.. 
This  address  alone  will  get  me  credit  for  materials.  And 
right  now,  I'm  in  no  position  to  deny  her  anything. 

HILDEGARDE.     Evidently. 

LAWRENCE.  [Rubbing  his  chin.]  Gosh !  The  old  man 
was  pretty  mum  about  the  plan.  [Suddenly.']  He  may  be 
sore  about  those  articles  of  yours !  I  hope  they  haven't 
queered  it. 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  I  fancy  she'll  arrange  it. 

LAWRENCE.  I  hope  she  will.  [Suddenly.]  Golly,  yott 
don't  seem  to  realize  what  this  job  means  to  me! 

HILDEGARDE.     Perhaps  I  do,  even  more  than  you. 

LAWRENCE.  [Intensely.]  Money !  That's  what  it  means 
.  .  .  Money!  A  thing  we've  never  had,  and  a  thing 
we've  got  to  get ! 

HILDEGARDE.    Is  money  everything? 

LAWRENCE.  Yes,  now — everything.  ,  .  .  Money !  I 
want  money — money  to  be  free  to  do  things — money  to  get 
things  for  you.  Do  you  think  I  like  to  see  you  wearing 
rags  like  this  ? 

[Pointing  to  her  dress. 

HILDEGARDE.     [With  a  quick  pain.]     Oh,  as  for  me — 

LAWRENCE.  I've  had  enough  of  the  tenements !  I've 
never  told  you — 

HILDEGARDE.    Larrfe ! ! 

LAWRENCE.  [Excitedly.]  That's  all  right,  my  dearx 
You're  a  fanatic  about  some  things.  I  don't  interfere  with 
you,  and  you  mustn't  interfere  with  me!  [Change.]  Per 
haps  you'd  better  go.  ...  I  mean  if  you're  not  in  syna- 
pathy  with  the  scheme,  for  God's  sake,  don't  hang  on. 


390  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HILDEGARDE.  [Slowly]  There's  lots  that  I  could  say, 
Jlarrie.  .  .  . 

LAWRENCE.  Yes,  I  know,  but  not  here.  Listen  —  Open 
your  head!  I've  got  to  nail  this  job.  I  want  to  do  it  on 
my  own  hook.  Then  if  I  take  it  to  a  firm,  I  collar  some  of 
the  swag  and  get  some  credit  for  my  work.  ...  I  may 
never  wing  a  chance  to  start  like  this  again.  [She  is  about 
to  say  something  but  he  continues.]  We're  broke  —  and  no 
Instalment  until  the  plans  and  models  are  accepted.  Here 
I  get  a  place  rent  free,  materials  on  tick,  with  Lawrence 
Sanbury  I-N-C  upon  the  signs.  .  .  .  I'll  incorporate  my 
*Iebts.  Otherwise,  back  again  into  an  old  thirty  a  week  job 
to  sweat  for  the  other  fellow  all  my  life.  [Quickly  giving 
HILDEGARDE  her  coat.]  Hildegarde,  here  —  take  your  rags 
;and  run. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Quietly.']     Shall  I  wait  luncheon  ? 

LAWRENCE.  Hang  luncheon.  I'm  going  to  eat  this 
job. 

HILDEGARDE.     But  on  your  first  day  home,  after    .    .    . 

LAWRENCE.  There'll  be  lots  of  days  like  this  coming. 
[Holding  her  coat]  Here  —  here  she  comes.  Just  say 


[Enter  CAROLINE  from  the  hall. 

CAROLINE.     Well,  I've  spoken  with  my  husband. 

LAWRENCE.     [Restrained]     Yes    .    .    .  ? 

CAROLINE.     He  thinks  it  an  admirable  plan  for  you  to 
work  here. 

LAWRENCE.     [Relieved]     Ah,  then  that's  settled  ! 

CAROLINE.     So  we  can  begin  immediately    .    .    .    that 
is    ...    if  — 

[Looks  at  HILDEGARDE. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  was  just  going.     [CAROLINE  is  silent] 
Good-by,  Mrs.  Knollys. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  391 

CAROLINE.  [With  feigned  surprise.]  Oh!  [Then  in  a 
commonplace  tone.]  Good-by.  I  shan't  forget  your  invita 
tion  to  the  tenements. 

LAWRENCE.  Excuse  me,  Hildegarde,  I'll  be  home — ah — 
shortly.  [HILDEGARDE  goes  quickly  to  the  arch,  and 

exits  through  the  hall. 

[LAWRENCE  makes  a  move  to  follow  her,  then 
pauses  perplexed.  CAROLINE  watches  him 
narrowly. 

LAWRENCE.  [Scratching  his  head.]  By  Jove!  What 
makes  a  fellow  a  brute  sometimes  to  the  woman  he  cares 
for? 

CAROLINE.  [Slowly.]  It's  the  artist  in  you,  Lawrence,, 
that  is  instinctively  unscrupulous  toward  anything  that  hin 
ders  its  development. 

LAWRENCE.     But  Hildegarde  wouldn't  hinder  me ! 

CAROLINE.  Not  intentionally,  certainly  not.  She's  an 
exceptional  person.  [Sitting.]  I'm  sorry  she  doesn't  like 
me. 

LAWRENCE.  [Fighting  against  his  own  conviction. J 
What  makes  you  think  she  doesn't  like  you? 

CAROLINE.  She  has  her — ah — principles.  Unfortu 
nately  they  oppose  everything  I  stand  for. 

LAWRENCE.    You  don't  know  her,  she    .    .    . 

CAROLINE.  Perhaps  not,  and  I'm  so  sorry!  for  I  hoped 
we  should  agree  about  you. 

LAWRENCE.  But  she  must  see  how  much  you  mean  to 
me,  and — 

CAROLINE.     Perhaps  you've  been  too  frank  with  her. 

LAWRENCE.     I  never  conceal  anything  from  Hildegarde. 

CAROLINE.     [Ironically.]     No.     .    .    . 

LAWRENCE.  [Continuing.]  And  I'd  hate  any  person 
that  made  me  lie!  [Sitting  disconsolately.]  What  can  I 
do? 


THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

CAROLINE.  That  you  must  decide  yourself.  You  stand 
at  a  crossing,  Lawrence.  The  one  road  means  the  old  limi 
tations  and  the  commonplace:  the  other  leads  to  freedom 
and  opportunity.  It's  difficult  to  choose,  because  she  loves 
you  .  .  .  dearly. 

LAWRENCE.    Of  course  she  does ! 

CAROLINE.  Therefore  it's  quite  natural  she  should  resent 
any  one  having  the  power  to  do  for  you  what  she  would 
like  to  do;  but  can't.  I'd  feel  that  way  myself,  if  ... 

LAWRENCE.     If  what? 

CAROLINE.  If  I  loved  you  the  way  she  does.  If  I 
weren't  ambitious  for  your  great  work! 

LAWRENCE.     But  she  wants  me  to  do  big  work. 

CAROLINE.  [Shaking  her  head.]  You  feel  things  in  you 
that  she  never  dreamed  of.  That's  why  .  .  .  [With  a 
change. ]  But  I  oughtn't  make  you  conscious. 

LAWRENCE.     What  is  it? 

CAROLINE.  [With  a  show  of  reluctance.]  That's  why 
you  aren't  at  your  best,  when  you're  with  her.  Now  there, 
I've  said  it. 

LAWRENCE.  But  I  haven't  had  the  chance  of  really  ex 
plaining  to  her  all  I  want  to  do,  and  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.  [Unscrupulously.']  An  artist  justifies  him 
self  by  doing:  not  explaining!  Consider  everything  that 
Jielps  you  to  your  end  as  good.  That  is  the  conscience  of  an 
artist.  His  work  is  always  greater  than  his  life. 

LAWRENCE.  By  Jove,  I  always  see  clearer  when  I  talk 
to  you ! 

CAROLINE.  [Passionately.]  I  am  unscrupulous  for  the 
Best  in  you! 

LAWRENCE.     [Taking  her  hands.]     You're  wonderful! 

CAROLINE.     I  mustn't  be  mistaken  in  you! 

LAWRENCE.     [Kissing  her  hands.]     You  won't  be. 

CAROLINE.     I  have  a  problem  too,  because  of  you. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  39$ 

LAWRENCE.     [Dropping  her  hands.']     Yes,  I  know. 

CAROLINE.  And  you  must  justify  me  as  well.  We  made 
a  compact.  Have  you  forgotten  it? 

LAWRENCE.     The  afternoon  we  left  Florence. 

CAROLINE.  And  climbed  the  hills  toward  Fiesole  .  .  > 
alone. 

LAWRENCE.  [Rapt.']  In  the  flaming  orange  scarfs  o£ 
mist,  with  the  whole  world  behind  us  in  the  valley. 

CAROLINE.  Where  you  said  the  world  should  always- 
be  for  the  artist  with  the  vision  and  the  will  to  create  a 
new  form  of  art.  You  were  splendid  then ! 

LAWRENCE.  And  afterward,  the  long  ride  on  to  Brescia 
and  Como  and — 

CAROLINE.  Psch!  That  lies  behind  us.  [Pause.  With 
a  change. ,]  I  thought  that  memory  belonged  to  us  alone. 

LAWRENCE.     It  does ! 

CAROLINE.     [Raising  her  finger.]     You  shared  it. 

LAWRENCE.     Forget  that,  please. 

CAROLINE.     I  hope  the  others  will. 

MURTHA'S  VOICE.  [Up  stairs.]  Will  I  hang  the  things 
up  here,  sir? 

HUBERT'S  VOICE.  [Up  stairs.]  Yes,  just  put  them  in 
the  closet,  please. 

CAROLINE.  [Quickly  to  LAWRENCE.]  Sit  down,  [fie 
starts  to  sit  in  a  chair  near  her.  She  points  to  one  at  right 
of  stage.]  No;  over  there.  [He  goes  quickly  to  the  other 
side.  She  continues.]  We'll  lunch  together.  The  Colony 
Club  at  one  o'clock. 

LAWRENCE.     I  thought  that  Hildegarde  might — 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting  peremptorily.]  I  must  see 
you. 

LAWRENCE.     But  on  my  first  day  home — 

CAROLINE.  [Impatiently.]  Between  Susan's  nervousness 
and  your  thoughtlessness,  I  ... 

LAWRENCE.     Very  well. 


394  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

[Enter  HUBERT  from  the  hall. 

HUBERT.    H'm!    Still  talking  over  plans? 

LAWRENCE.  [Rising,  embarrassed.]  Yes  .  .  .  yes 
,  ,  .  and  I  want  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Knollys. 

HUBERT.    Me?    For  what? 

LAWRENCE.  The  fourth  storey.  It'll  be  a  great  help  to 
me.  [HUBERT  looks  perplexed. 

CAROLINE.  You  know,  I  have  asked  Mr.  Sanbury  to  build 
tils  models  there. 

HUBERT.  [Grimly."]  Ah  ...  have  you!  I  didn't 
know. 

LAWRENCE.  [Filling  in  the  awkward  pause. ]  Then  you 
can  see  exactly  how  the  rooms  will  look. 

HUBERT.  Oh,  as  for  me  .  .  .  [Smiles.']  Quite  so. 
Very  kind  of  you — very.  Where's  your  wife? 

XAWRENCE.     She's  already  gone. 

HUBERT.  [Sarcastically.]  If  you  should  see  her  again, 
you  might  tell  her  that  I've  decided  to  go  South  immedi 
ately, 

LAWRENCE.  [Jerking  at  his  watch.]  Yes — ah  .  .  . 
She'll  be  delighted  to  hear  that  .  .  .  and  ...  ah 
-»  ,  .  I  was  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Knollys;  and  if 
you'll  excuse  me — I'll — I'll  ...  be  going  now. 

[He  stands  awkwardly.     HUBERT  goes  to  the 
hall,  then  turns  to  LAWRENCE. 

HUBERT.     Good  morning. 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  good-by,  Mrs.  Knollys.  [To  HUBERT.] 
Good-by,  Mr.  Knollys. 

CAROLINE.     Good-by. 

[HUBERT  nods.    LAWRENCE  exits.     Pause. 

HUBERT.  [Laughing  softly.]  Caroline,  I  think  your 
latest  is  a  light-weight! 

CAROLINE.     [Changing  the  subject.]   You're  going  South ? 

.HUBERT.     I  hope  you'll  endure  my  absence.      [Pause.] 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  395 

What  was  your  object  in  giving  your  young  man  the  Im 
pression  that  you  had  to  consult  me  in  anything? 
CAROLINE.     I  generally  consult  you. 

HUBERT.  Yes.  After  you've  completed  your  arrange 
ments.  It's  your  house.  I've  nothing  to  say.  But  I  see 
now  why  you  needed  Elsie's  room. 

[A  furious  knock  is  heard  in  the  hall.     Thetp 

both  start  as  MURTHA  enters. 

MURTHA.     [Proudly.]     Ah,  did  ye  hear  me  knock? 
CAROLINE.     What  is  is? 

MURTHA.      A    young    lady's    in   ith'    front    hall.       [Ta 
HUBERT.]     She  wants  to  see  you,  Mr.  Knowllez. 
HUBERT.     To  see  me? 

MURTHA.  [Hesitating.']  She  says  she's  from  th'  Cusb- 
toms  office,  so  she  says. 

HUBERT.  [Grimly  to  CAROLINE.]  I  fancy  it's  about 
your  trunks. 

CAROLINE.     [To  MURTHA.]     Send  her  in  here. 
MURTHA.    Shure  Oi  will — whoy  wouldn't  Oi? 

[Exits  to  halt. 

HUBERT.  Why  should  the  young  lady  want  to  see 
me? 

CAROLINE.    Have  you  money  with  you? 
HUBERT.     [Taking  out  his  bill  case.]     Yes. 
CAROLINE.     [With  a  smile.]     I  gave  her  my  card. 
HUBERT.     But — 

CAROLINE.  [Taking  his  bill  case  and  going  to  windowJ\ 
Let  me  see.  All  she's  come  for  is  more  money. 

[HUBERT  during  the  above  goes  toward  the 
hall.  CAROLINE'S  back  is  to  him.  EMTLY 
MADDEN  enters  nervously  from  the  right* 
She  is  a  young  woman  of  about  twenty- 
eight.  HUBERT  makes  a  quick  recoil  of 
amazement  and  a  half-smothered  exclama- 


396  THE  UN.CHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

tion:     "Emily!"     She,  seeing  CAROLINE, 
gives  him  a  quick  gesture  of  silence. 

EMILY.     [In  a  breathless  staccato  and  a  forbidding  man 
ner.']     This  is  Mr.  Knollys,  I  believe. 
HUBERT.     Yes. 

CAROLINE.     [Turning  and  coming  down.]     I  hope  you've 
^Lad  no  difficulty. 

EMILY.     You  evidently  did  not  understand. 
CAROLINE.     Oh,  I  see.     In  that  case,  why,  of  course,  I 
wish  to  pay  you  for  any  further — 
EMILY.     [Violently.]     Please! 
HUBERT.    Caroline ! 
CAROLINE.     Oh ! 

EMILY.    Mrs.  Knollys,  all  your  trunks  are  held. 
CAROLINE.      [Savagely.]     The  insolence! 
EMILY.     It  was  the  only  way  to  save  you  from  a  charge 
of  smuggling  and     .    .    . 
CAROLINE.     Indeed! 

EMILY.     I  couldn't  make  you  realize  it.     That's  why  I've 
come  to  see  your  husband. 

CAROLINE.     [With  a  smile.]     Thank  you  very  much. 
HUBERT.    Caroline,  you'd  better  let  me  settle  this. 
CAROLINE.     [Crossing  to  the  hall.]     By  all  means.     You 
always  settle  things   so  adequately.      [To  EMILY.]      Good 
morning.     [She  starts  to  go  up  stairs,  then  turns  and  says 
significantly  to  HUBERT  :]     Oh,  your  purse ! 

[She  throws  it  gracefully  over  the  balustrade. 
He,  standing  below,  catches  it.     She  con 
tinues  up  stairs.     He  watches  her  out  of 
sight,    then    turns    and    comes    down    to 
EMILY. 

HUBERT.      [Giving  way   to   his   astonishment.]      Emily! 
I'm  all  in  the  dark !     How  are  you  mixed  up  in  this  ? 

EMILY.     [Quickly.]     I  left  the  newspaper  and  got  a  posi- 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  397 

tion  in  the  Customs.  This  morning  I  saw  her  name  on  the 
list  of  passengers.  She  fell  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
sourest  old  inspectors.  He  found  some  jewels  in  a  sachet 
bag.  Then  he  caught  her  in  a  lie.  As  usual,  he  asked  her 
to  reconsider  her  declaration.  She  refused  .  .  . 

HUBERT.     [Unconsciously.]     The  damned  fool ! 

EMILY.     Then  he  insisted  she  be  searched. 

HUBERT.     Naturally. 

EMILY.  As  I  was  standing  there,  the  officers  deputed  me 
to  look  her  over. 

HUBERT.  [Appalled."]  But  she  didn't  know  who  you 
were,  did  she? 

EMILY.  Oh,  no,  but  I  took  the  chance  to  tell  her  of  the 
penalty:  ten  thousand  dollars'  fine,  or  two  years'  imprison 
ment,  or  both. 

HUBERT.     I  hope  that  sobered  her! 

EMILY.  Judge  for  yourself.  She  said  she  had  a  list,  and 
gave  me  this  envelope.  [Giving  him  an  envelope  out  of  her 
bag.]  Open  it. 

HUBERT.     [Opening  it.]     Two  one  hundred  dollar  bills. 

EMILY.     One  for  my  partner.     There  were  two  of  us. 

HUBERT.  [Putting  envelope  on  table.]  The  same  old 
game. 

EMILY.  I  felt  like  throwing  it  into  her  face;  but  then  I 
thought  of  you,  and  held  my  temper.  The  inspectors  were 
waiting. 

HUBERT.     What  did  you  do? 

EMILY.  I  told  your  wife  I'd  tend  to  everything,  and  got 
her  off.  Then  I  reported  for  her  that  she  had  reconsidered, 
had  nothing  on  her  person,  she  was  ill  and  didn't  know  what 
things  were  dutiable;  and  therefore  wanted  all  her  stuff  to 
be  appraised. 

HUBERT.    Good!    And  then? 

EMILY.     Then   I  tried  to  'phone  you  everywhere,   and 


398  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

finally  I  had  to  take  the  chance  of  even  meeting — her  again, 
and  come  right  here  to  tell  you. 

HUBERT.    You  little  thoroughbred. 

EMILY.  Hubert,  do  nothing  until  you  hear  from  them. 
Dispute  nothing,  but  make  her  stick  to  the  story  that  I 
framed  up  for  her,  and  pay  on  their  appraisal.  I  hope 
I've  done  right. 

HUBERT.    Right !     I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you. 

EMILY.     Return  this  to  your  wife  with  my  compliments. 

[Points  to  envelope. 

HUBERT.    I  guess  you're  all  in,  Emily. 

EMILY.     Oh,  don't  mind  about  me. 

HUBERT.  Filthy  business,  this.  [Suddenly  anxious.] 
There'll  be  no  consequences  for  you? 

EMILY.     I  guess  not. 

HUBERT.  {Walking  about.]  I  don't  know  how  it  is.  She 
never  learns.  She  does  exactly  what  she  pleases.  Experi 
ence  means  nothing  to  her ;  because  in  some  way  she  always 
manages  to  get  protected,  no  matter  what  she  does.  She's 
skated  over  thin  ice  all  her  life — she  courts  the  danger 
signals;  and  just  when  anybody  else  would  fall  through,  I 
an  unknown  somebody  reaches  her  a  hand  out  of  the  uni 
verse  and  lands  her  safe !  Gad !  and  to  think  that  it  was  you 
that  helped  her! 

EMILY.  I  don't  think  that  would  appeal  to  her  sense  of 
humor. 

HUBERT.     Did  she  bring  over  much  stuff?  ; 

EMILY.     They  said  about  six  thousand,  off  hand. 

HUBERT.  Six  thou  .  .  .  Phew!  Well,  that's  her 
affair.  But  sit  down  a  moment.  [He  puts  her  on  settle, 
then  sits  at  right  of  the  table.]  Tell  me,  how  difl  you  get 
into  the  Customs  office? 

EMILY.  I  got  tired  of  the  paper.  My  friend  Hildegarde 
Sanbury  suggested  the  Customs,  and  helped  me  get  it. 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  399 

HUBERT.     Oh,  Mrs.  Sanbury's  a  friend  of  yours. 

EMILY.     Yes,  why? 

HUBERT.    They  were  here  this  morning. 

EMILY.     Were  they?     Isn't  Hildegarde  fine? 

HUBERT.     Tell  me  about  him! 

EMILY.     You  mean  Lawrence? 

HUBERT.     Yes. 

EMILY.  They  say  he's  a  genius,  full  of  all  wonderful 
things,  and  just  waiting  for  his  opportunity  to  express  them. 

HUBERT.     Yes,  just  the  type! 

EMILY.    What  type? 

HUBERT.     Do  you  know  where  he  and  Caroline  met? 

EMILY.  I've  no  idea;  except  that  they  spent  some  time 
together  in  Italy. 

HUBERT.    What  was  he  doing  there? 

EMILY.  Studying  and  making  sketches.  Hildegarde 
slaved  and  saved  every  cent  she  could  to  send  him  over. 

HUBERT.     So  this  is  her  latest! 

EMILY.     What  do  you  mean? 

HUBERT.  I  wonder  if  I  can  explain  it.  Caroline  has  a 
mania  for  depredating  the  next  generation.  She  poses  to 
herself  as  the  heroine  of  a  belated  romance. 

EMILY.  But  she  knows  Lawrence  is  married;  doesn't 
she? 

HUBERT.  She  prefers  them  married.  Takes  all  the  per 
fume  and  the  blossoms,  and  lets  the  wife  grub  at  the  roots. 
She  likes  to  be  the  destiny  and  let  the  wife  assume  the 
utility.  Does  he  love  his  wife? 

EMILY.  Why,  of  course,  devotedly.  That's  the  finest 
thing  about  him. 

HUBERT.  Better  yet.  She  enjoys  making  a  test  of  her 
power. 

EMILY.  [Impulsively.]  Hildegarde's  the  best  in  the 
world,  Hubert,  and  .  .  . 


400  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

HUBERT.    Then  I  pity  her. 

EMILY.  You  don't  mean  your  wife  will  hurt  Hildegarde, 
do  you  ? 

HUBERT.  [Bitterly.]  She  won't  bleed;  that  is,  out 
wardly.  She'll  just  wake  up  and  find  her  happiness  evapo 
rated. 

EMILY.  You  mustn't  allow  it.  She's  just  a  child  before 
a  sophisticated  person. 

HUBERT.  [Desperately.']  What  can  I  do?  Caroline  has 
done  this  all  her  life;  and  as  she  operates  under  the  pro 
tection  of  my  name,  I've  had  apparently  to  stand  by  and 
sanction  it. 

EMILY.     Can't  you  stop  her? 

HUBERT.  [Again  walking  about.]  How?  You'd  respect 
her  if  she  showed  one  real  emotion.  She's  physically  chaste ; 
but  is  absolutely  unchastened  in  soul;  and  yet  she  feeds  on 
the  souls  of  others.  That's  how  she  keeps  young.  She's 
a  mental  Bluebeard,  and  I'm  the  hotel  clerk  for  her  castle 

.  .  I  know  where  all  her  miserable  relics  hang  .  .  . 
What  rooms  and  what  days  of  their  lives  they've  offered  her  ! 

EMILY.    Why,  this  is  horrible,  Hubert ! 

HUBERT.  [Continuing.']  I'd  give  my  eyes  to  stop  her ! 
If  not  for  the  sake  of  others,  for  my  own  sake !  She's 
broken  me !  I  tried  to  get  free  for  years  at  the  beginning. 
But  she  plays  so  absolutely  safe  .  .  .  She  protects  her 
self  so  completely  that  she  is  unassailable. 

EMILY.    Can't  he  be  warned? 

HUBERT.  Not  if  she  gets  him  first.  Her  kind  of  poison 
strikes  them  blind.  There's  nothing  to  be  done  for  him. 
Just  you  keep  out  of  her  way. 

EMILY.  Don't  worry.  I  will.  Well,  I  must  get  back  to 
work.  [She  starts  to  go  again. 

HUBERT.  My  dear,  why  will  you  work?  Why  won't 
you  let  me  take  care  of  you? 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  401 

EMILY.  I  wish  to  earn  my  own  living,  Hubert.  You 
know  that. 

HUBERT.  Yes.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  .  .  .  Why 
have  you  avoided  me  for  this  long  time? 

EMILY.  Hubert,  I  didn't  want  to  write  it;  but  it's  over 
between  us. 

HUBERT.     [After  a  pause.]     Yes,  I've  realized  that. 

EMILY.  [Very  tenderly.]  Hubert,  I've  no  reproach  to 
make  you ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  reproach  me,  or  to  feel 
any  bitterness.  What  we  gave  was  a  free  gift  from  both 
— a  free  gift  and  no  regrets.  A  break  had  to  come  some 
time,  I  suppose;  and  as  soon  as  I  met  him,  I — I  realized 
that  it  had  to  come  right  away.  [Looking  away  from 
HUBERT.]  He  asked  no  questions;  but  that's  why  you 
haven't  seen  or  heard  from  me.  Hubert  I'm  going  to 
marry  Michael  Krellin. 

HUBERT.  [After  a  pause.]  Good  luck  to  you.  [He 
takes  her  hand  in  both  of  his.]  But  I  thought  you  didn't 
believe  in  marriage. 

EMILY.  Neither  did  he.  But  I'm  afraid  we  both  believe 
in  marriage  now.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  happened ;  but  it's 
different,  Hubert  .  .  .  That's  all  ...  I  know  you'll 
understand. 

[HUBERT  nods  and  releases  her  hand.     She 
goes  toward  the  hall. 

HUBERT.  Emily  .  .  .  [She  stops  and  turns.]  We've 
been  good  chums  for  a  long  time;  and,  do  you  know,  you've 
never  allowed  me  to  give  you  anything? 

EMILY.     That  was  our  agreement,  Hubert. 

HUBERT.  Yes;  but  I  want  you  to  promise  me  this.  If 
you  should  ever  get  into  a  blind  alley,  and  need  anything, 
a  friend  or  money,  and  need  it  without  strings,  I  want  you 
to  think  of  me.  I'd  like  to  feel  you'd  do  that  much  for 
the  sake  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


402  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN         [Act  I 

EMILY.  [Coming  to  him.']  All  right.  I  promise.  [Ex 
tends  her  hand.]  Good-bye. 

HUBERT.  [Quietly,  as  he  takes  her  hand.]  Krellin's 
a  very  lucky  fellow. 

EMILY.     That's  like  you,  Hubert. 

HUBERT.     I'll  call  you  a  cab. 

EMILY.  Never  mind.  Don't  come  with  me,  please.  I'll 
run  right  along.  [She  turns  and  says  very  tenderly:] 
Good-by. 

HUBERT.     Good-by. 

[She  exits  through  the  hall.  After  she  is  off, 
HUBERT  stands  looking  after  her  until  the 
front  door  is  heard  to  close.  He  drops 
his  hands  disconsolately  and  walks  me 
chanically  to  the  table  at  center.  His  eyes 
fall  upon  the  envelope  still  lying  there. 
He  takes  it  up.  His  mood  changes.  He 
gets  a  sudden  idea.  He  looks  up,  throws 
the  envelope  down  on  the  table  again 
with  an  angry  gesture,  and  goes  with  vehe 
ment  determination  toward  the  stairs.  He 
pauses  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  shakes 
his  head  perplexed,  and  then  decides  upon 
a  different  attack.  He  calls  very  pleas 
antly: 

HUBERT.     Ah,  Caroline! 

CAROLINE.      [Up  stairs.]      Yes. 

HUBERT.     I'd  like  to  see  you  for  a  moment. 

CAROLINE.     Are  you  alone? 

HUBERT.      [Still  pleasantly.]      Yes.     Oh,  yes. 

CAROLINE.     I'll  be  right  down. 

[HUBERT  walks  round  the  room  gathering 
his  confident  anger  with  every  step.  He 
hears  her  coming,  controls  his  humor,  and 


Act  I]         THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  403 

stands  with  his  hands  behind  him,  full  of 
exasperation,  as  she  enters. 

CAROLINE.     Did  you  settle  it? 

HUBERT.  [Deliberately  giving  her  a  chair.}  One  mo 
ment. 

CAROLINE.     Susan  is  waiting  me  for  luncheon. 

HUBERT.      [Decidedly.]      Very  sorry. 

CAROLINE.      [Inquiringly.]     Well? 

HUBERT.  Very  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  I'll  need  some  of 
your  time  this  afternoon. 

CAROLINE.  [After  sitting,  looks  up  demurely.}  What 
for? 

HUBERT.     [With  great  distinctness.']     The  Customs  office. 

CAROLINE.  Oh,  no.  You  ventured  to  criticize  me.  You 
asked  me  to  leave  it  to  you.  I  do. 

HUBERT.  [Losing  control.}  About  six  thousand  dollars' 
duty  for  you  to  pay ! 

CAROLINE.  I?  Perfectly  ridiculous!  I  settled  it.  Of 
course,  if  you  .  .  . 

HUBERT.     [Angrily.}     You  did,  eh? 

CAROLINE.  [Laughing*}  If  you  were  fool  enough  to  let 
that  woman — 

HUBERT.    If  "  that  woman  "  treated  you  as  you  deserve — 

CAROLINE.     I  think  I  treated  her  very  well. 

HUBERT.  It  was  only  out  of  consideration  for  me  that 
she — 

CAROLINE.     Oh,  for  you! 

HUBERT.  Yes,  for  me.  If  "  that  woman  "  didn't  hap 
pen  to  be  a  friend  of  mine,  you  might  be  publicly  disgraced 
by  now  as  well  as  I ! 

CAROLINE.  [Laughing.}  A  friend  of  yours!  Why, 
really,  Hubert,  I  must  say  you  have  strange  friends —  A 
woman  that  would  use  her  friendship  to  extort  money  .  .  . 

HUBERT.     [Enraged.]     Listen  to  me!     Your  trunks  are 


404  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

in  the  hands  of  the  appraisers.  You've  been  caught  in  a 
ridiculous  lie;  and  she — 

CAROLINE.  [Triumphantly. ]  She  can't  say  that,  be 
cause  I  bribed  her!  Your  friend! 

HUBERT.  [Flinging  the  envelope  on  the  table.']  There's 
your  two  hundred  dollars,  and  you'll  have  to  pay  six 
thousand  dollars  on  your  trunks,  and  be  grateful  to  Miss 
Madden  for  having  saved  you! 

CAROLINE.     To  whom? 

HUBERT.  [With  great  confidence.}  Miss  Emily  Madden, 
the  woman  you  maligned. 

CAROLINE.  [In  a  moment  of  rage.]  She  looked  me  over ! 
She  dared ! 

HUBERT.  [Gloating.]  It  was  Miss  Madden.  [He  walks 
away  from  her,  turns  with  supreme  elation.]  Yes. 

CAROLINE.  [In  a  peal  of  laughter.]  Then  I  understand 
perfectly  why  she  came  to  you!  But  I'm  not  so  easy. 
The  matter  of  the  trunks  was  settled.  [Walking  to  the 
hall.]  Of  course,  if  you  feel  that  you  are  subject  to  her 
extortions,  or  that  perhaps  you  want  to  give  her  a  token 
of  your  gratitude,  that's  your  affair.  [Turning  to  him.] 
It  would  really  be  indelicate  of  you  to  insist  that  I  should 
pay  your  mistress! 

HUBERT.  [Foiled  and  following  her  furiously.]  You 
.  .  .  [Chokes.] 

CAROLINE.  [Very  pleasantly.]  Good  morning.  Susan 
is  waiting.  She  exits  as  the  Curtain  descends. 

ACT  II 

[The  stage  presents  the  combined  kitchen  and  living  room 
of  the  SANBURY  flat  in  the  model  tenements,  New  York 
City.  The  whole  atmosphere  betrays  great  neatness, 
but  equal  constriction  and  narrowness  of  quarters.  At 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  405 

the  first  glance,  the  room  is  apparently  all  doors.  The 
walls  are  done  in  "waterproof  white.  There  is  a  window 
in  the  rear  wall,  a  little  to  the  left.  This  opens  on  a 
fire-escape,  and  gives  a  view  of  other  tenements  in  the 
rear.  There  is  a  shade  over  the  window,  which  is 
further  hung  with  chintz  curtains,  that  are  visibly 
cheap,  but  in  good  taste  as  far  as  the  design  is  con 
cerned.  In  front  of  the  window  is  an  upholstered  win 
dow-seat.  To  the  left  of  the  window  is  a  small  serving 
table,  with  cruets  of  vinegar  and  oil,  and  a  salad-bowl 
upon  it.  Below  this  table  hang  sundry  cooking  utensils. 
Next  to  the  table  stands  the  gas-stove  with  a  coffee-pot 
upon  it.  High  on  the  wall  above  the  gas-store  is  a 
gas-meter  of  the  kind  commonly  in  use  in  the  tenements. 
It  is  automatic,  and  releases  a  supply  of  gas  only  when 
a  quarter  is  dropped  into  it.  At  the  left  of  the  stove 
and  in  the  corner  of  the  room  is  a  combination  sink  and 
wash-tub  of  white  porcelain  ware.  The  dwellers  in 
the  tenements  use  the  wash-tub  as  an  ice-box.  At  the 
opening  of  the  act,  a  four-fold  screen  hides  both  the 
sink  and  the  stove  from  view.  However,  above  the 
screen,  a  towel  rack  with  clean  dish  towels  is  visible. 
In  the  upper  left  wall  of  the  room  is  a  door  leading  to 
LAWRENCE'S  bedroom.  Below  this,  there  is  a  com 
bination  wall  book-case  and  mirror.  The  book  shelf 
is  jammed  with  well-used  books.  Directly  underneath 
the  book-case  stands  a  flat  table  upon  which  are  a 
typewriter  and  a  telephone. 

In  the  rear  wall  of  the  room,  to  the  right  of  the 
window,  is  the  door  leading  from  the  hall.  To  the 
right  of  this  is  the  dumb-waiter  shaft,  with  a  sliding 
panel  door.  In  the  right  wall  of  the  room  is  the  en 
trance  to  HILDEGARDE'S  bedroom.  A  little  below  this 
is  the  door  leading  to  the  bathroom. 


406  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

There  is  an  electric  bell  above  the  hall  door,  another 
electric  bell  above  the  dumb-waiter.  Next  to  the  dumb 
waiter  is  a  speaking  tube,  which  rejoices  in  a  very 
shrill  whistle. 

RUNNING  around  the  whole  room  is  a  plate  shelf 
with  colored  plates  upon  it.  There  are  framed  pictures 
of  Tolstoy,  Ruskin  and  Prince  Kropotkin  conspicuously 
hung  upon  the  walls. 

At  the  center  of  the  room  is  a  large  mission  table, 
set  with  a  plate,  knife,  cup  and  saucer,  napkin  and  a 
bowl  of  fruit.  The  morning  newspaper  lies  opened. 
Between  the  dumb-waiter  and  the  door  to  HILDEGARDE'S 
room  is  a  large  mission  cupboard.  There  are  five  chairs 
in  the  room.  Three  are  around  the  table,  and  one  is 
placed  before  the  typewriting  stand.  There  is  a  hat- 
rack  upon  the  wall  next  to  the  hall  door. 

It  'is  about  eleven-thirty  in  the  morning,  some  weeks 
after  the  preceding  act.  The  blind  is  up,  and  the  room 
is  very  light. 

Off  rear  a  hand-organ  is  heard  playing.  HILDE- 
GARDE  is  discovered  at  the  typewriter.  She  works  on, 
disregarding  the  hum  of  incoherent  tenement  life  about 
her.  The  organ  stops.  A  street  vendor  is  heard 
hoarsely  crying  his  wares :] 

VENDOR'S  VOICE.     [Off.]     Apples!     Apples!     Ten  cents 
a  qu-a-art! 

WOMAN'S   VOICE.      [Off.]      Hey-hey!      Epples !      Yas— 
you !     Noomber  seven !    A  helfft  quart ! 

VENDOR'S  VOICE.     [Off.]     All  right,  number  seven! 
WOMAN'S  VOICE.     [Off.]     I  schick  de  nikkel  down. 

[The  VENDOR'S  -voice  ceases.  Suddenly  the 
sound  of  a  window  crashing  is  heard  quite 
close.  HILDEGARDE  pauses  attentively. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  407 

LAWRENCE  bursts  into  the  room  from  the 
left.  He  appears  in  a  dressing  gown, 
with  a  ball  in  his  hand.  He  is  shaved, 
but  still  has  lather  on  his  face. 

LAWRENCE.     Look  here! 

HILDEGARDE.    Was  it  your  window? 

LAWRENCE.  Almost  my  head.  Say,  does  anybody  own 
those  brats? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Goes  quickly  to  the  window,  throws  it  up 
and  calls  out :]  Vincent!  Joey;  Don't  run  away.  I  told 
you,  you  mustn't  play  ball  in  the  court.  I'll  have  to  tell 
your  mothers. 

LAWRENCE.  [Giving  her  the  ball,  which  she  puts  on  a 
shelf.]  A  lot  of  good  that'll  do. 

HILDEGARDE.  It's  hard  to  be  severe  with  them.  [LAW 
RENCE  goes  toward  the  bathroom.]  They  oughtn't  play  in 
the  street.  Little  Jamie  Kirk  was  killed  by  a  car  last  week. 

LAWRENCE.  There's  plenty  of  them  left.  [The  dumb 
waiter  whistle  gives  a  piercing  scream.]  What's  loose 
again?  [He  opens  the  tube,  listens  and  yells  down.]  No! 
don't  want  any  apples! 

HILDEGARDE.  [Opening  dumb-waiter.]  Wait,  Lawrence. 
[She  calls  down  quietly.]  Mrs.  Pannakin  is  number  seven 
on  the  other  side.  [Shuts  dumb-waiter  door.]  Will  you 
have  breakfast  now? 

LAWRENCE.     What  time  is  it? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Taking  screen  away  from  stove.]  About 
half-past  eleven. 

[She  tries  to  light  gas-stove. 

LAWRENCE.  We've  got  to  hurry.  [Turning.]  What's 
the  matter  now  ? 

HILDEGARDE.     The  meter.     Have  you  a  quarter? 

LAWRENCE.     [Giving  her  a  coin.]     No  credit  there,  eh! 

[He  goes  into  bathroom. 


408  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

[She  gets  up  on  chair  and  puts  coin  in  the 
meter,  winds  it  and  proceeds  to  heat  the 
coffee. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Calling  to  him.]  It'll  be  ready  in  a 
moment.  You  finish  dressing. 

[LAWRENCE  enters  from  the  bathroom  with  a  towel,  drying 
his  face. 

LAWRENCE.     What  have  you  ordered  for  lunch? 
HILDEGARDE.      I   told   Mrs.    Pannakin   to   take   especial 
pains  to-day. 

LAWRENCE.  [Grimly  disgusted.]  Mrs.  Knollys  will  en 
joy  one  of  Mrs.  Pannakin's  co-operative  dinners;  where  all 
the  last  week's  vegetables  co-operate  to  make  this  week's 
soups.  I  wonder  why  they  want  to  come  here  any 
way. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Slowly.]     I  can't  imagine. 
LAWRENCE.       [Reproachfully.]       You    invited    them.      I 
tried  to  head  it  off. 

HILDEGARDE.  They  are  your  friends;  and  you  know  I 
never  miss  a  chance  of  interesting  rich  people  _n  this  phil 
anthropy.  Go,  dear,,  and  finish  dressing. 

[He  exits  to  his  room. 

[She  takes  a  script  from  the  typewriter,  folds 
and  signs  it,  then  addresses  it  in  an  en 
velope,  and  stamps  it.  She  hums  while  she 
works.  LAWRENCE  re-enters  carrying  his 
collar,  tie,  coat  and  vest.  He  wrestles 
with  his  collar  and  then  throws  the  other 
things  down. 

LAWRENCE.  This  life  is  killing  me !  I'm  as  nervous  as 
a  cat! 

HILDEGARDE.     Didn't  you  sleep  well? 

LAWRENCE.     [Pointing  to  the  typewriter.]     Sleep!    What 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  409 

time  was   it  when  you  began  banging  that  instrument   of 
torture  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  I  had  to  get  my  copy  ready  for  this  eve 
ning's  edition. 

LAWRENCE.      [Continuing  to  dress. ]     What  is  it? 

HILDEGARDE.  A  report  of  last  evening's  Labor  Meeting 
for  Krellin's  column. 

LAWRENCE.  You  know,  you'll  have  to  stop  this  kind  of 
thing.  That's  if  you  care  anything  for  me. 

[She  gets  butter  out  of  improvised  ice-boa:  in 
the  wash-tubs. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Cheerfully.]  My  little  writing  and  my 
job  here  are  at  present  our  only  means  of  support. 

[She  puts  butter  on  table. 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  don't  rub  it  in.  [With  a  change.]  I'm 
sorry  enough  to  see  you  slave  the  way  you  do;  but  Krellin 
and  your  friends  are  attacking  the  very  people  from  whom 
I'm  going  to  get  my  living. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Cheerfully.]  Yes,  Mrs.  Knollys  took 
the  trouble  to  inform  me  of  that  some  weeks  ago. 

LAWRENCE.  Well,  they  don't  like  to  hear  how  their 
money  is  made. 

HILDEGARDE.  There's  very  little  danger  of  their  listen 
ing  to  me. 

LAWRENCE.     And  how  about  Mr.  Knollys? 

HILDEGARDE.  He  and  I  understand  each  other  com 
pletely. 

LAWRENCE.  Yes,  no  doubt.  But  this  is  how  it's  worked 
out  for  me.  I've  finished  the  preliminary  plans,  and  should 
have  got  the  first  instalment  to  begin  my  work  three  days 
ago. 

HILDEGARDE.    Well? 

LAWRENCE.  [Continuing.]  Your  articles  have  driven 
him  down  South,  to  look  over  that  factory  of  his. 


410  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  I'm  glad  of  that. 

LAWRENCE.  I'm  glad  you're  glad.  But  I  get  not  a  cent 
till  he  O.K.'s  the  plans. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Cutting  bread  for  him.~\  When  does  he 
get  back? 

LAWRENCE.  He  was  expected  yesterday.  [Turning 
away.~\  Oh,  I  don't  want  a  lot  of  breakfast.  I'm  rickety ! 
I'm  all  in!  Just  give  me  some  coffee! 

HILDEGARDE.  [Getting  coffee  from  gas-stove."]  It's 
ready  now.  [Pouring  it.']  Where  do  you  go  to-night? 

LAWRENCE.     Mrs.  Millette. 

HILDEGARDE.     Mrs.  Who? 

LAWRENCE.  Millette, — what's  the  difference  what  her 
name  is  ?  Mrs.  Knollys  says  she  wants  to  build  a  house. 

HILDEGARDE.     Good. 

LAWRENCE.  I'm  invited  to  dine  with  her  and  go  to  the 
play  to-night  to  talk  things  over. 

HILDEGARDE.     Any  prospects? 

LAWRENCE.  [With  a  tone  of  justification."]  There's  a 
social  side  to  my  job.  You  must  see  that.  I've  got  to  make 
that  solid  first. 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes.  [Pause.      | 

LAWRENCE.  Why?  You're  not  offended  that  you're  not 
asked,  are  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  Oh,  dear  no;  I'm  thinking  only  of  what 
they'll  think  of  you. 

LAWRENCE.     In  what  way? 

HILDEGARDE.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  known  as  the  kind 
of  man  these  woman  can  invite  without  his  wife. 

LAWRENCE.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  known  as  the  kind 
of  man  that  always  drags  his  wife  about,  either. 

[He  opens  the  newspaper. 

HILDEGARDE.  It's  an  affront  to  you,  not  to  me.  [The 
bell  rings  over  the  hall  door.  Opening  the  door.~]  Oh, 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  411 

thank  you.  [Takes  letters  from  some  one  outside.']  Wait, 
will  you  drop  this  in  the  mail  for  me?  [She  fetches  her 
typewritten  article  and  an  orange.  As  she  passes  LAWRENCE 
she  says:]  These  are  for  you.  [She  gives  him  some  letters. 
Then  she  returns  to  the  door  and  gives  the  letter  and  the 
orange  to  the  little  girl  evidently  standing  outside.]  Here, 
Annie.  Thank  you.  [She  closes  the  door. 

LAWRENCE.  [Reading  a  letter  which  he  has  opened  dur 
ing  the  above  business.]  From  my  old  firm.  [Proudly.] 
They  offer  me  a  raise  of  ten  a  week  if  I'll  come  back. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Looking  through  her  mail.]  Bills,  bills, 
bills.  [She  sits  at  her  typewriting  table. 

LAWRENCE.  They'll  have  to  wait.  I've  got  to.  [Show 
ing  his  letter.]  How  would  you  answer  them? 

HILDEGARDE.     That  you  must  decide  yourself. 

LAWRENCE.  [Pointing  to  the  bills  humorously.]  Say, 
ain't  it  the  devil  how  the  money  goes  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  [With  a  smile.]  I  can  manage  the  neces 
sities  ;  if  you'll  keep  down  the  luxuries. 

LAWRENCE.  [Looking  at  a  bill.]  Seven  dollars  and 
fifty  cents  for  flowers.  [Looks  up  at  her. 

HILDEGARDE.     To  whom  did  you  send  them? 

LAWRENCE.  Mrs.  Knollys,  of  course.  She  needs  flowers. 
Always  has  them.  [With  attempted  justification.]  I  eat 
two  meals  a  day  on  her;  I've  got  to  keep  my  end  up  some 
way. 

HILDEGARDE.     Certainly,  by  all  means. 

LAWRENCE.  [With  another  letter.]  Tailor's  bill.  One 
hundred  and  twenty-five  cold  plunks.  [Boyishly.]  That's 
the  swell  dress  suit,  all  right.  [Looks  at  her.]  Do  you 
know,  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  drop  in  and  see  my  old 
firm ;  not  that  I'm  aching  to  go  back  to  them,  but — 

HILDEGARDE.  You  might  call  on  them,  and  tell  them  what 
you're  doing. 


412  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

LAWRENCE.     What  do  you  think? 

HILDEGARDE.     I'd  play  the  game  out  for  all  its  worth. 
It's  no  use  weakening  now. 

LAWRENCE.     [Pointing  to  bills.]     What  will  we  do  with 
these? 

HILDEGARDE.      [Encouragingly.]     We'll  meet  them  with 
your  first  instalment.          ^ 

[The  bell  over  the  dumb-waiter  rings  loudly. 
LAWRENCE.      [Going  to  dumb-waiter.]      I'll  open. 

[He  opens  door.     The  bell  continues  its  ringing. 
VOICE.     [Below,  yelling  up.]     Sanbury? 
LAWRENCE.     [Shouting  down.]     Yes.     [Roaring.]     Take 
your  finger  off  that  bell!  [Bell  stops. 

VQICE.      [Cheerily.]      Thought  you  might  be   a-hangin' 
out  the  wash! 

LAWRENCE.     No,  I'm  not  hangin'  out  the  wash !     What 
do  you  want? 

VOICE.    Lookout!    It's  coming  up !! 

[LAWRENCE  just   ducks   back  as   the   dumb 
waiter  shoots  up. 

HILDEGARDE.      It's   the  grape-fruit  and   salad   from  the 
grocer's.     [LAWRENCE  takes  it  off.]     Put  them  in  there. 

[He  puts  them  as  she  indicates  inside  the  wash-tubs. 
LAWRENCE.     What  time  is  it  now? 
HILDEGARDE.     After  twelve.     You'll  have  to  hurry. 
LAWRENCE.     [Suddenly.]     Say,  can't  we  have  the  screens 
up?      [Putting  them  hastily  back  before  the  stove.]     And 
you  know,  there's  nothing  very  handsome  about  this  view. 

[Jerks  down  the  blind  over  window  rear. 
HILDEGARDE.     Larrie,  please  don't  fuss. 

[He  has  gone  quickly  for  his  coat  hanging 
on  a  peg  behind  his  door.     He  re-enters 
struggling  into  his  coat. 
LAWRENCE.     Say,  my  room  looks  like  hell! 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  413 

HILDEGARDE.  Agnes  will  clear  it  up  while  I'm  setting 
the  table. 

LAWRENCE.  [Nervously.]  Where  is  she?  You  know  she 
never  comes  when  you  want  her ! 

HILDEGARDE.      [Clearing  table  quietly.]      She'll  be  here. 

LAWRENCE.  [Attempting  to  fix  a  picture  straight  on  the 
wall.]  Have  all  your  orders  come? 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes.     Please  don't  get  nervous. 

LAWRENCE.  [Turning  nervously.]  Well,  I'm  only  try 
ing  to  help  you  out.  I  pass  the  grocer's. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Pausing.]  You  silly  boy.  I  guess  you 
can't  help  fussing. 

LAWRENCE.  I  like  things  to  be  right.  [Suddenly.]  Are 
you  going  to  wear  that  dress? 

HILDEGARDE.    What's  the  matter  with  my  dress? 

LAWRENCE.  [Dubiously.]  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  all  right; 
only  I  thought  your  green — and  honestly  now,  your  feet 
aren't  as  big  as  that.  It's  those  Consumer's  League  boots, 
just  like  your  gloves!  You'd  wear  anything  with  a  Trade 
Union  label  on  it,  wouldn't  you  ?  No  matter  what  it  looked 
like! 

HILDEGARDE.    They  won't  see  my  feet. 

LAWRENCE.  Won't  they  ?   [Exploding.]   That  skirt  hikes  ! ! 

HILDEGARDE.  [With  an  obvious  effort  to  be  patient.] 
I'll  be  all  right;  if  you'll  only  get  out  before  you  make 
me  nervous.  [A  bell  rings.  He  goes  toward  dumb-waiter 
again.]  [Lifting  the  blind  he  has  pulled  down.]  No. 
That's  the  door.  I  guess  it's  Agnes. 

LAWRENCE.  I  hope  so.  [He  opens  the  hall  door  and 
MURTHA  bounds  into  the  room.]  Oh,  Lord! 

MURTHA.  [Effusively.]  Th'  top  o'  the  marnin'  to  you, 
Mishter  Sanbury !  [Seeing  HILDEGARDE.]  Ah,  Sishter! 
Shure,  yer  hushband  do  be  lookin'  loike  a  capitalisht  to-day. 

[Shakes  both  her  hands. 


414  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN        [Act  II 

LAWRENCE.     Where's  Agnes? 

MURTHA.  [With  feigned  surprise.]  Ah,  Agnes,  is  it? 
[Cunningly.]  Shure,  she's  all  roight.  She  do  be  havin'  th' 
gran'  good  loock  to-day! 

LAWRENCE.    Where  is  she? 

MURTHA.  She's  got  a  job-to-day,  yis,  wid  Mishter  Curtis, 
her  auld  boss. 

HILDEGARDE.    Why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  couldn't  come? 

MURTHA.  Oi  wouldn't  dishappoint  ye.  Oi  know  yer 
goin'  to  have  a  shindy;  and  is  it  any  wonder  that  Oi'm 
here  before  th'  wind. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Practically.]  Then  go  right  to  Mr. 
Sanbury's  room  and  clear  it  up. 

MURTHA.     Shure  Oi  will;  whoy  wouldn't  Oi? 

[She  exits  left  with  aged  agility. 

LAWRENCE.     Can't  you  get  rid  of  her? 

HILDEGARDE.     I've  got  to  have  somebody. 

LAWRENCE.  Mrs.  Knollys  hates  the  sight  of  her.  [To 
the  ceiling.]  Oh,  we're  going  to  have  a  lovely  party ! 

HILDEGARDE.     [Nervously.]     Then  call  it  off  entirely. 

LAWRENCE.  I  tried  to.  But  she  was  determined  to  come 
here  to-day. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Abruptly.]  Then  stop  complaining!  I 
wish  you'd  go!  [Seeing  the  futility  of  chiding  him,  she 
changes  to  a  very  reassuring  manner.]  Now  go,  dear.  You 
look  very  handsome. 

[She  adjusts  his  necktie  and  goes  with  him 
toward  hall  door.  He  has  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

LAWRENCE.     Do  I  look  like  ready  money? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Laughing.]     Yes. 

LAWRENCE.  [Shamefaced.]  Well,  I  haven't  got  any. 
Mine's  in  the  gas  meter. 

HILDEGARDE.    How  much  will  you  need? 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  415 

LAWRENCE.  I've  got  to  get  those  dames  here,  haven't  I? 
And  I  might  be  stuck  for  a  taxicab.  You  know,  such  things 
have  happened! 

HILDEGARDE.     [Going  to  cupboard.]     Wait. 

[She  brings  out  a  china  bank  and  shakes  it. 

LAWRENCE.     What's  that? 

HILDEGARDE.  My  linen  bank.  [Shaking  it.]  There 
must  be  several  dollars  in  it. 

[She  breaks  it  with  a  knife;  and  a  mass  of 
small  coins  is  exposed. 

LAWRENCE.  [Sweeping  up  the  coins.']  I  feel  like  a  man 
that's  robbed  a  nursery. 

[As  he  puts  them  uncounted  into  his  pocket, 
some  of  them  roll  on  the  floor. 

HILDEGARDE.  The  grocer  will  be  glad  to  give  you 
bills. 

LAWRENCE.  It  'ud  take  me  an  hour  to  count  up  this 
chicken  feed.  [Suddenly.']  There's  some  on  the  floor.  [As 
he  starts  to  lean  over,  his  soft  hat  falls  from  his  head. 
He  steps  on  it.']  Gad ! !  Sure  thing !  This  is  my  lucky 
day !  [He  punches  his  hat  savagely. 

HILDEGARDE.  I'll  pick  it  up.  [She  does  so.]  Larrie 
dear,  will  you  let  me  say  something?  And  you  won't  get 
angry  ? 

LAWRENCE.     [Defensively.]     Well    .    .    .  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Going  to  him.]  Dearest,  first  try  to  be 
calm — for  your  own  sake,  don't  be  irritated.  It's  unbe 
coming. 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  I'm  all  right;  but  all  these  little 
things  .  .  . 

HILDEGARDE.  I  know,  dear,  it  is  hard;  but  for  the  sake 
of  my  pride  in  you,  be  careful  about  showing  any  impa 
tience  to  me,  particularly  in  front  of  Mrs.  Knollys.  I  don't 
care  how  angry  you  get  when  we're  alone.  I  understand. 


416  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

She  doesn't.     And  judging  from  the  last  time  she  saw  us 
together,  she  might  think    .    .    . 

LAWRENCE.  Please  don't  refer  to  that  again.  I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  it.  [Contritely."]  I  lost  my  head. 

HILDEGARDE.      If  you  remember  it,   I   shall   forget  it. 
[She  kisses  him.'}     Now,  good-by,  dear. 
LAWRENCE.    Good-by. 

[He  exits  through  the  hall  door,  as  MURTHA 

re-enters  from  his  room  at  the  left. 
MURTHA.     That's  done. 
HILDEGARDE.     Then  you  can  lay  the  table. 
MURTHA.     Shure  Oi  will,  me  dear. 

[She  goes  quickly  to  the  cupboard  for  the 

necessary  things. 

[While  MURTHA  is  busied  at  the  table,  center, 
HILDEGARDE    gets   the   salad   and   grape 
fruit   from    wash-tubs.      She    cleans    and 
prepares  them  during  the  following  scene. 
HILDEGARDE.      You   know,   Mrs.    Murtha,   it   isn't   quite 
honest  for  you  to  say  that  Agnes  will  go  to  places,  and  then 
you  go  to  them  yourself. 

MURTHA.     [Busying  herself  at  table.]     No,  ma'm. 

[She  crosses  herself  with  a  mechanically  de 
vout  expression. 

HILDEGARDE.     Then  why  do  you  do  it? 
MURTHA.     Whoy  wouldn't  Oi?     There's  Aggie,  th'  Lord 
love  her,  can  hardly  keep  herself,  and  Tim's  no  good  at  all, 
and  Mary  in  th'  hoshpital,  and  Joey  wid  th'  haughty  lady 
that  he's  married  and  th'  twins ! 

HILDEGARDE.  But  aren't  you  getting  a  little  too  old 
for  .  .  .? 

MURTHA.  [Interrupting  savagely.']  There  yer  sayin' 
it!  And  d'ye  see,  if  Oi  wuz  to  tell  thim:  "  It's  me,  ma'm, 
that's  lookin'  fer  th'  job/'  Oi'd  nivir  git  it!  And  a  little 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  417 

loi  loike  that  doan't  hurrt.      [Wheedling."]      Fer  Oi'm  as 
shtrong  as  ivir  Oi  wuz. 

HILDEGARDE.  [With  a  sigh  of  futility.']  The  knives  on 
the  right  side. 

MURTHA.     [Very  gently. ~\     Yis,  ma'm. 

[Pause. 

HILDEGARDE.    Have  you  ever  waited  on  a  table? 

MURTHA.     Me!     Naw,  ma'm. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Pausing.']     Then  perhaps — 

MURTHA.  [Confidently,  while  HILDEGARDE  works  at 
straightening  out  the  table.]  Ah,  ye  jusht  tell  me  what 
to  do,  and  Oi  kin  do  it.  Shure,  Oi'm  not  wan  av  thim  thick 
Micks. 

HILDEGARDE.  Then  first  of  all  you  must  roll  down  your 
sleeves. 

MURTHA.  [Obeying  like  a  child.]  Yis,  ma'm.  Yer  a 
laidy.  Oi  can't  say  naw  liss  than  that. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Smiling.]     What  is  a  lady? 

MURTHA.  Ha !  A  laidy  is  wan  av  thim  that  has  all  th' 
beer  an'  skittles,  an'  doan't  have  to  do  no  worrk.  [Laugh 
ing.]  Shure,  Oi  allus  says  moy  auld  man's  th'  loocky 
laidy  av  our  house.  Me  an'  his  chilthren  does  th'  worrk  fer 
him;  and'  he  schmokes  in  th'  corner  all  day  long. 

HILDEGARDE.  Well,  I  don't  smoke  in  the  corner  all  day 
long. 

MURTHA.    Ah,  doan't  ye  be  lishtenin'  to  me  gush! 

HILDEGARDE.  You  just  bring  the  things  from  Mrs. 
Pannakin  to  me. 

MURTHA.     Yis,  ma'm. 

HILDEGARDE.  And  if  there's  anything  you  don't  know 
how  to  do.,  you  just  ask  me  quietly,  and  I'll  tell  you. 

MURTHA.  Yis,  ma'm.  [She  pricks  up  her  ears.]  What 
wuz  that!!!  [She  makes  a  dive  for  the  window  rear  and 
looks  out.]  That's  Mickey  Doolan!  Shure  it's  Doolan!! 


418  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

[She  flings  open  the  window.  As  she  does  so,  a  violent 
quarrel  in  Irish  between  a  man  and  woman  is  heard. 
MURTHA  yells  out :]  Mickey !  Mickey ! !  You  lave  her  be ! 
[Solemnly.]  Moy  Gawd!  He's  hit  her,  th'  poor  woman, 
and  she  wid  th'  young  un  comin'!  [She  jumps  up  on  the 
sill.]  Mickey!  Mickey!!  You  lave  her  be!!  Fer  th' 
love  o'  God  and  th'  shame  o'  man,  you  let  her  be ! !  You 
dhrunken  pesht! 

[DURING  the  above  speech,  HILDEGARDE  has 
tried  vainly  to  hold  MURTHA  back  and 
stop  her  yelling;  but  MURTHA  has  got 
speechless  with  rage.  She  tears  loose 
from  HILDEGARDE,  goes  through  the  win 
dow  and  is  heard  clattering  down  the 
fire-escape  execrating  DOOLAN. 

HILDEGARDE.      [Calling.]      Mrs.  Murtha!!     Wait — Mrs. 
Murtha ! ! ! 

[MURTHA  has  disappeared  into  the  melee. 
The  row  is  heard  suddenly  to  increase 
with  MURTHA'S  advent.  A  woman's  shrill 
scream  is  heard,  and  than  a  man's  growl. 
The  row  increases.  HILDEGARDE,  seeing 
the  futility  of  trying  to  control  things  at 
a  distance,  decides  to  follow.  She  also 
exits  over  the  fre-escape,  and  descends. 
MURTHA'S  high  voice  is  heard  above  the 
noise,  calling  for  "  Tim/'  Then  some 
other  woman's  voices  are  heard  in  high 
excitement  calling.  A  hushed  subsidence 
due  to  HILDEGARDE'S  appearance  follows. 
Finally  an  absolute  pause  of  silence.  Then 
a  key  is  heard  turning  in  the  lock  of  door 
from  the  hall.  The  door  opens.  Whistling 
is  heard  on  the  steps.  The  whistling  evi- 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  419 

dently  is  paced  to  keep  time  with  some  one 
climbing  slowly  up  stairs.  LAWRENCE 
enters. 

BOYS'  VOICES.     [Outside,  heard  as  the  door  opens.]     Give 
us  the  ball!    You  got  it! 

LAWRENCE.     Go  on,  boys,  chase  yourselves.     [To  CARO 
LINE.]     Come  in. 

[CAROLINE  enters. 

BOYS'   VOICES.      [Derisively.]      Git   a   hair-cut!      Git   a 
hair-cut !     G'wan,  you  dude ! 

LAWRENCE.     [Closing  the  door.]     This  is  the  living  room. 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking. 

CAROLINE.     [Laughing.]     I  should  admit  it's  rather  high. 
LAWRENCE.     [Calling.]     Hildegarde!    We're  here!     [To 
CAROLINE.]     Sit  down,  please. 

CAROLINE.  [Not  sitting.]  Are  you  sure  that  she  ex 
pected  me? 

LAWRENCE.    Certainly.    She  may  be  in  my  room. 

[Crosses  left  and  opens  his  door. 

CAROLINE.     [Crossing.]     I  want  to  see  where  you  sleep. 

LAWRENCE.    Behold  my  couch  of  dreams. 

CAROLINE.      [Murmuring.]      You  poor  boy! 

LAWRENCE.  [Closing  window  rear.]  I  don't  care  where 
I  sleep,  as  long  as  I've  a  place  to  work  in. 

[He  starts,  to  pull  down  the  blind. 

CAROLINE.     What's  there? 

LAWRENCE.  [Cheerfully.]  Excellent  view  of  a  fire- 
escape  and  Mrs.  Pannakin's  kitchen,  where  our  nectar  and 
ambrosia  are  prepared;  which  later  you  are  to  be  privileged 
to  taste. 

CAROLINE.     [After  looking.]     Ah! 

LAWRENCE.  [He  pulls  down  the  blind.  Then  he  goes 
toward  HILDEGARDE'S  room  at  right,  calling.]  Hilde 
garde  ! 


420  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

CAROLINE.  [Insinuatingly.']  Do  you  object  to  this  little 
chat  with  me  alone? 

LAWRENCE.  Of  course  not!  But  I  wanted  to  leave  you 
here  with  Hildegarde,  while  I  looked  for  Miss  Ambie.  She 
may  have  trouble  finding  us. 

CAROLINE.  I  hope  so.  [He  looks  at  her.]  I  have 
trouble  enough  in  losing  her. 

LAWRENCE.  [Laughing.']  Do  you  know,  you  some 
times  perplex  me  terribly? 

CAROLINE.  [Sitting.']  Do  I?  [Smiles.]  Sit  down  and 
let  me  look  at  you.  [He  sits  and  looks  at  her  inquiringly.'] 
I  want  to  see  if  I  can  fit  you  into  this  environment.  How 
do  you  manage  it? 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  Caroline,  you're  so  used  to  luxury,  you 
can't  understand  how  a  little  plain  living  rather  helps  a 
fellow  to  dream  true.  That's  why  I  didn't  want  you  to 
come  down.  I  was  afraid  it  would  discourage  you. 

CAROLINE.  [Slowly  and  with  a  caressing  glance.]  It 
has  made  many  things  about  you  very  clear  to  me. 

LAWRENCE.     There's  nothing  complex  about  me. 

CAROLINE.  Yes,  if  you  can  do  what  you  have  done  down, 
here,  what  will  you  do,  when — ?  Oh,  it's  only  because  ycu  i 
are  you  that  all  this  squalor  hasn't  killed  your  genius ! 

LAWRENCE.  [Humorously.]  Oh,  come  now,  Caroline, 
it's  hard  for  me  not  to  agree  writh  you  when  you  speak  of 
me  as  a  genius  and  all  that.  I  tell  you  frankly  I  adore 
it;  but  I'm  really  quite  an  ordinary  sort  of  a  chap.  I've  got 
enough  ambition  and  enthusiasm  to  draw  cheques  on  my 
future.  I  hope  I've  learned  my  job;  so  if  the  big  things 
come  along,  I'll  be  able  to  measure  up  to  my  opportunities. 
And — when  I'm  with  you,  I  feel  my  luck  is  with  me. 

CAROLINE.  Then  my  faith  in  you  does  really  help  you, 
does  it? 

LAWRENCE.     How  can  you  ask  that? 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  421 

CAROLINE.     Keep  your  confidence,  Lawrence,  but  remem 
ber  that  patience  is  a  virtue  of  the  underlings.     I  don't  pos 
sess  that  virtue;  and  you  cannot  afford  to. 
LAWRENCE.    What's  that  to  do  with  it? 
CAROLINE.     [Vehemently.]     Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
in  circumstances  like  these !     I  can't  lie  to  you !     It's  use 
less  to  disguise  it.     I  hate  to  see  you  pulling  down  the 
blinds !     I  hate  anything  that  ties  you  here !     The  world  is 
full  of  people  that  can  plod  and  wait  for  opportunities. 
We've  got  to  make  them  and  before  it  is  too  late !     I  knew 
that  you  had  wings  the  first  time  that  I  saw  you.     I  hate 
the  idea  of  a  half  a  loaf,  when  by  the  right  of  the  power  in 
you,  you  are  entitled  to  the  whole !     I  hate  even  the  patch 
work  you're  doing  on  my  house!  [She  rises. 
LAWRENCE.     Don't  say  that!      The  work  you've  given 
me  has  enabled  me  to  leave  my  firm  with  a  free  conscience. 
CAROLINE.     [Smiling.']     What  have  you  to  do  with  con 
science  ?    People  have  conscience  only  when  they  fail. 

LAWRENCE.  [Rising.]  By  Jove,  you  have  a  liberating 
way  of  saying  things ! 

CAROLINE.     Have  I  helped  to  liberate  you? 
LAWRENCE.     I've  chucked  a  lot  of  litter  since  I've  met 
you. 

CAROLINE.  That's  right.  I  love  to  hear  you  say  that. 
Oh,  I  want  to  see  you  free — free  from  all  the  petty  scruples 
that  would  hinder  you !  That's  my  work  now.  For  while 
you're  building  houses,  7  shall  be  building  your  career. 

[LAWRENCE  takes  her  enthusiastically  and 
impulsively  into  his  arms,  and  kisses  her 
full  on  the  mouth.  He  looks  at  her  as  if 
hypnotised.  She  is  full  of  the  disguised 
triumph  in  her  seduction.  They  pause. 
LAWRENCE  becomes  thoughtful  with  a  dis 
turbing  realization  of  what  he  has  done. 


422  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

LAWRENCE.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

CAROLINE.    For  what? 

LAWRENCE.     Forgive  me.     I  had  no  right  to — 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting.]  You  have  a  right  to  every 
thing  if  you  only  want  it  enough!  [Passionately.']  I  want 
you — [Quickly  correcting  herself.]  I  want  you  to  succeed; 
and  we  shall  find  a  means.  [Suddenly.]  You  must  get 
that  studio  immediately. 

LAWRENCE.     [Dazed.]     What — ? 

CAROLINE.  [In  a  low  voice.]  You  can't  work  any  longer 
at  my  house.  [He  looks  up.]  Hubert  arrives  to-day. 

LAWRENCE.     [Absently.]     Good! 

CAROLINE.     A  little  less  enthusiasm,  please. 

LAWRENCE.  I  mean,  then  I  can  get  his  O.K.  on  the 
plans. 

CAROLINE.  You'll  get  your  first  instalment  to-morrow. 
You've  got  to  draw  up  plans  of  an  Italian  country  house  for 
Edwalyn  Millette. 

LAWRENCE.    She  has  decided? 

CAROLINE.  She  will.  She  has  money ;  and  I  can  tell  her 
exactly  what  she  thinks  she  wants.  [Humorously.]  There 
I  can  help  you  too.  You'll  need  your  studio.  [Dreamily.] 
I  know  exactly  how  we'll  furnish  it.  I  know  just  where 
I  shall  sit  and  pour  your  tea.  [  The  bell  rings  over  the  door. 
They  start,]  And  we  won't  have  bells  like  that! 

LAWRENCE,  That's  Hildegarde.  [Turning.]  I'll  tell 
her  of  the  studio.  • 

CAROLINE,  [Quickly.]  Not  a  word.  Leave  that  to  me. 
[He  hesitates,]  Oh,  we  drive  to  Edwalyn's  Long  Island 
place  this  afternoon.  I  want  you  to  see  the  grounds  before 
you  dine  with  her  to-night. 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  all  right.  [He  opens  the  door  to  the 
hall,  and  discovers  SUSAN  AMBIE.]  Come  in,  Miss  Ambie. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  423 

SUSAN.  [Entering,  Tier  hat  awry.']  Oh,  there  you  are ! 
[Grieved.]  Well,  Carrie,  I  must  say — 

CAROLINE.     We  decided  you  weren't  coming. 

SUSAN.  [Looking  at  her  watch.]  I  thought  I  was  on 
time. 

CAROLINE.     Think  again,  my  dear. 

LAWRENCE.     Did  you  have  trouble  finding  us? 

SUSAN.  [Straightening  her  hat  and  speaking  to 
LAWRENCE.]  You  oughtn't  let  those  children  play  ball  in 
the  street.  Their  ball  just  missed  me! 

CAROLINE.    Too  bad !    Too  bad ! 

SUSAN.    Carrie,  I've  something  I  must  say  to  you    .    .    . 
[Looks  significantly  at  LAWRENCE. 

LAWRENCE.  Excuse  me.  I'll  hunt  up  Hildegarde.  She 
may  be  in  her  office. 

[As  soon  as  LAWRENCE  exits  SUSAN  betrays  a 
most  uncontrolled  and  nervous  anxiety. 
She  is  nervous  almost  to  the  point  of  in- 
coherency. 

CAROLINE.    Well,  what  is  it? 

SUSAN.  Carrie,  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  but  I  haven't  slept! 
I  can't  take  any  more  responsibility.  That's  all. 

CAROLINE.     Then  don't. 

SUSAN.     [On  the  raw.]     They  ask  me  if  I'm  blind!! 

CAROLINE.     Well,  if  you're  not,  what  do  you  care? 

SUSAN.  [Gushily.]  People  are  talking  about  you  and 
Lawrence.  Of  course,  7  understand — but  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting.]  If  you  give  your  time  think 
ing  about  what  other  people  say,  you'll  never  have  time 
for  anything  else. 

SUSAN.  [Impatiently.]  But  people  know  that  Hubert's 
been  away  .  .  .  and  they  see  you  and  Lawrence  to 
gether  everywhere,  and  .  .  . 


424  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

CAROLINE.  There's  comfort  in  that.  Just  think  what 
they  imagine  when  they  don't  see  us. 

SUSAN.  My  dear,  you  can't  stop  wicked  tongues  from 
wagging.  ...  Of  course,  I  tried  to  defend  you  all  I 
could.  .  .  .  People  are  saying  that  you've  lost  your 
head  over  this  young  architect  that  you  have  living  with  you 
in  your  house.  Everybody's  talking — 

CAROLINE.     Everybody  has  nothing  else  to  do. 

SUSAN.  Where  is  his  wife?  Perhaps  she's  heard  things 
and  means  to  be  rude! 

CAROLINE.    Rude  to  me?    She  couldn't  be. 

SUSAN.  You  know,  Lawrence  tried  to  discourage  our 
coming.  What  can  you  and  she  have  in  common? 

CAROLINE.  [Meaningly.]  Nothing !  Lawrence  sees  that 
already.  When  she  realizes  that  we  can  have  nothing  in 
common — not  ever  her — well,  the  rest  is  easy. 

SUSAN.  [Alarmed.]  Carrie!  You're  up  to  something 
mad!  [CAROLINE  laughs.]  I  haven't  seen  you  look  or  act 
like  this,  not  since  .  .  .  Italy !  [Suddenly  with  a  cry.] 
Yes,  they're  right!  It's  true!! 

CAROLINE.     [Calmly.]     What? 

SUSAN.     You've  lost  your  head  about  him. 

CAROLINE.  [Recklessly.]  Oh,  there's  no  law  against  a 
woman  losing  her  head. 

SUSAN.    But  his  wife !    What  do  you  mean  to  do? 

CAROLINE.     I  ?     Nothing. 

SUSAN.  Carrie,  come  back  with  me.  We'll  leave  our 
cards;  and  we'll  have  done  our  duty. 

CAROLINE.     Go  if  you  like. 

SUSAN.  [With  a  nervous  whimper.]  I  won't  desert  you, 
Carrie ! 

CAROLINE.     [Rising.]     Oh,  then  shut  up ! 

SUSAN.  Don't  be  rash,  dear,  she  may  know  more  than 
you  think. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  425 

CAROLINE.     In  big  things  I  do  nothing  underhand. 

[There  is  heard  a  fearful  shaking  of  the  window. 
SUSAN.    What's  that ! ! 
CAROLINE.     I'll  see. 

[She  goes  toward  window  rear,  pulls  up  the 
blind.  The  person  outside  on  the  fire- 
escape  flings  up  the  window  and  scrambles 
into  the  room. 

SUSAN.      [Tearfully.]      [During  CAROLINE'S  movement.] 
I  don't  know  what  we're  doing  here  anyway ! 
CAROLINE.      [Seeing  MURTHA.]      The  gorilla! 
SUSAN.     [Frightened.]     Carrie,  this  is  the  way  out! 

[MURTHA  has  scrambled  into  the  room  talk 
ing  incoherently  to  herself.  She  looks 
rather  damaged,  and  is  carrying  her 
apron  and  purse  in  her  hand.  Her  hair 
is  tousled  and  her  eye  is  red. 

MURTHA.  [Recognizing  CAROLINE.]  Ah,  fer  th'  love 
o'  God,  Mrs.  Knowllez,  is  it  you!  D'ye  see  me  oye? 
[Pointing  to  it.]  That's  phwat  ye  git  whin  ye  come  inter- 
ferin'  between  a  hushband  and  a  woife !  Shure,  it  wuz  her 
that  guv  me  that.  [Laughing.]  Hah,  there  wuz  wigs  on 
th'  green !  I  licked  him  wance  before,  and  Mrs.  Doolan 
she  knows  it,  moind  ye;  and  whin  I  wuz  trou'  wid  him,  a 
dog  wouldn't  ha'  lapped  his  blood ! 

[CAROLINE  and  SUSAN  have  tried  in  vain  to 
retreat  before  MURTHA'S  stream  of  hys 
terical  verbiage. 

SUSAN.  [Completely  appalled.]  Yes,  that's  all  very 
interesting  .  .  .  !  [Retreats  around  table. 

MURTHA.  Now  doan't  ye  moind  me.  Shure  O'im  only 
talkin'  to  mesilf,  and  Oi  couldn't  foind  a  bigger  fool  to  talk 
to.  [She  opens  a  purse  she  still  carries  in  her  hand,  sees 
her  money.]  Ah,  that's  all  roight. 


426  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

[She  puts  purse  down  on  the  table.  CAROLINE 
and  SUSAN  are  chasseing  toward  the  door, 
which  is  suddenly  opened  and  HILDEGARDE 
is  heard  talking  to  some  one  at  the  en 
trance. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Calling  in.]     Mrs.  Murtha,  go  bathe  that 
eye  in  cold  water. 

MURTHA.     [Subdued  immediately. ]      Yis,  ma'm. 

[She  goes  to  the  sink  and  does  so. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Continuing  to  some  one  outside.]  No, 
Doolan;  if  you're  sobered  up  at  four  o'clock,  come  to  my 
office.  The  ejection  officer  will  be  there.  [She  closes  the 
door  sharply  as  she  enters,  then  suddenly  sees  CAROLINE 
and  SUSAN.  She  continues  with  complete  composure.]  Oh ! 
[Shakes  hands  with  CAROLINE.]  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  here 
to  receive  you.  [Shakes  hands  with  SUSAN.]  I  hope  you'll 
forgive  me.  There's  been  an  unfortunate  difficulty  with  a 
couple  of  our  tenants.  Excuse  ine! 
CAROLINE.  Certainly. 

[HILDEGARDE  exits  into  her  room. 
[CAROLINE    and   SUSAN    look    at   each   other 
while  the  noise  of  running  water  is  heard 
at  the  sink,  where  MURTHA  is  bathing  her 
eye.     SUSAN  is  frightened.     CAROLINE  is 
enjoying  her  usual  parasitic  amusement. 
SUSAN.    What  do  you  think,  Carrie? 
CAROLINE.    The  worse  it  is,  the  better  I  like  it. 

[HILDEGARDE  immediately  re-enters  with  a 
small  bottle  and  some  lint,  which  she  puts 
down  on  the  table. 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  CAROLINE  and  SUSAN.]  Won't  you 
lay  off  your  wraps  in  Larrie's  room?  [Pointing  left.] 
[SusAN  passes  and  enters  the  room  at  left.]  [Continues.] 
I'm  sure  there's  more  excitement  than  real  injury. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  427 

[CAROLINE  goes  toward  room.  HILDEGARDE 
takes  a  bowl  from  plate  rack  and  moves  to 
MURTHA. 

CAROLINE.  [To  SUSAN  whose  train  is  still  visible  show 
ing  the  smallness  of  the  room.]  Susan,  go  in. 

SUSAN.  [Excitedly.]  I  can't  walk  through  the  wall,, 
my  dear. 

[The  train  is  however  snatched  in,  and 
CAROLINE  enters,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

MURTHA.     Oh,  me  oye — me  oye! 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  MURTHA.]  Now  quick,  let  me  look 
at  that  eye. 

MURTHA.    Shure  Oi  will,  me  dear ! 

HILDEGARDE.  Bathe  it  with  this  stuff.  Here,,  use  this  too. 
[Going  to  table  to  get  the  lint  pad,  she  sees  MURTHA'S 
purse.]  Oh,  you've  found  your  purse.  Where  was  it? 

MURTHA.  [Guiltily.]  I  must -ha'  dhropped  it  runnin' 
down. 

HILDEGARDE.  You  see  you  were  wrong  to  accuse  Mrs, 
Doolan.  That  only  made  more  trouble. 

MURTHA.  [Cannily.]  It  wuz  th'  loocky  thing  thim 
Polacks  didn't  know  'twas  loyin'  jusht  outside  their  window. 

[LAWRENCE   enters  from  the  hall  door. 
LAWRENCE.     [To  HILDEGARDE.]     Where  have  you  been? 
MURTHA.      [Groaning.]      Oh,  Mother!     Me  oye    .    .    . 
me  oye.     .    .    . 

[She  sits  wretchedly  at  the  left. 
LAWRENCE.    What's  the  matter! 

MURTHA.  [In  a  loud  regretful  tone.]  If  I  had  only  hit 
him  whin  he  thripped ! ! 

HILDEGARDE.     There's  been  trouble  with  the  Doolans. 

LAWRENCE.     In  here? 

HILDEGARDE.     No.     And  everything  is  all  right  now. 

« 


428  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

LAWRENCE.     Yes,  but  where  are  the  ladies? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Trying  to  quiet  him  by  her  tone.]  In 
your  room,  laying  off  their  wraps. 

[During  the  above,  MURTHA  has  been  fight 
ing  over  the  battle  in  pantomime,  while 
bathing  her  eye,  and  mumbling  to  herself. 

LAWRENCE.     Did  you  get  anybody  else  to  help  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Barely  holding  her  nerves.]  I've  been 
quelling  a  riot! 

LAWRENCE.  [Pointing  to  MURTHA.]  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  her? 

HILDEGARDE.  Go  to  Mrs.  Pannakin's,  and  see  if  she 
won't  serve  the  dinner  herself. 

LAWRENCE.  I  was  just  there  looking  for  you!  I  asked 
her  then.  .  .  . 

HILDEGARDE.     Well    .    .    .  ? 

LAWRENCE.  [Throwing  up  his  hands  and  speaking  to 
the  ceiling.']  She  can't  come!  She  isn't  dressed!  And 
dinner's  ready ! ! 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  MURTHA.]  Go  to  Mrs.  Pannakin's, 
smooth  your  hair,  borrow  an  apron  and  bring  in  the  dinner. 

MURTHA.  [Rising.]  Oh,  yis,  ma'm.  [With  a  savage 
gesture.]  The  durrty  A.P.A. !  [She  crosses  to  the  hall 
door  muttering.]  Oh,  Lord,  I'm  as  blind  as  Doolan's  goat! 
I'll  nivir  see  out  o'  that  oye  again.  .  .  .  To  hit  me  whin 
Oi  wasn't  lookin'.  .  .  .  [She  exits. 

LAWRENCE.     Good  Lord! 

[He  swings  around  the  room  in  an  ecstasy 
of  exasperation. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Going  to  him.]  Larrie,  no  matter  what 
happens,  don't  be  betrayed  into  any  rudeness  to  me  before 
Mrs.  Knollys. 

[The  door  left  opens  and  SUSAN  enters. 

HILDEGARDE.     The  ^excitement  has  subsided.     Won't  you 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  429 

sit  here?  [She  fixes  a  chair  at  her  right.]  [SUSAN  sits 
with  her  back  to  the  door.  CAROLINE  enters.]  [Continu 
ing.]  And,  Mrs.  Knollys,  won't  you  sit  there?  [She  mo 
tions  CAROLINE  to  the  chair  at  LAWRENCE'S  right.  He  helps 
her.  She  faces  the  door.  HILDEGARDE  faces  the  audience. 
LAWRENCE  has  his  back  to  the  audience.  Note:  the  LADIES 
have  just  removed  their  wraps.  CAROLINE  has  not  taken 
off  her  gloves.]  Don't  mind  my  jumping  up.  [She  gets 
bread  and  butter  from  the  wash-tubs.]  How  is  Mr. 
Knollys  ? 

CAROLINE.     Well,  thank  you,  the  last  I  heard. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Puts  the  bread  on  table  and  helps  them 
to  butter.]  [To  CAROLINE.]  Let  me  help  you.  We  hear 
the  Homestead  Mills  are  going  to  begin  work  again.  I'm 
glad.  Sugar  ? 

CAROLINE.  [Waving  a  "  no."]  And  the  percentage  on 
investments  lowered  again. 

[They  all,  except  CAROLINE,  eat  grape-fruit. 

SUSAN.  [Changing  the  conversation.]  Mrs.  Sanbury, 
have  you  any  nerves  left? 

HILDEGARDE.    This  is  by  no  means  a  typical  day. 

CAROLINE.     No? 

HILDEGARDE.  Many  of  the  workmen  living  here  are  idle. 
Unfortunately,  they  drink. 

CAROLINE.  If  that  is  how  they  spend  their  leisure,  why 
agitate  for  shorter  hours  and  bigger  pay? 

SUSAN.      [Vigorously.']     What  good  bread! 

HILDEGARDE.  Many  laboring  people  drink  because  they 
have  to  work,  and — 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting  sarcastically.']  Precisely,  and 
they  don't  like  it.  I  agree  with  you  so  far. 

HILDEGARDE.  Perhaps.  But  oftener  they  get  the  habit 
of  drink  because  they  haven't  decent  food. 

LAWRENCE.      [Rising.]      That  being  tfie  case,  ladies,   I 


430  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

propose  we  fortify  ourselves  against  the  possible  vagaries 
of  our  co-operative  cook. 

[He  goes  to  tubs  and  takes  out  bottles. 
SUSAN.     [Looking. ,]     Your  what? 

HILDECARDE.  [To  SUSAN.]  Perhaps  Larrie  has  told 
you,,  this  is  a  co-operative  dining-room.  Several  of  the 
people  living  here  chip  in  to  pay  the  rent. 

LAWRENCE.     [To  CAROLINE.]     A  little  Scotch? 

[She  refuses  it.    He  helps  SUSAN. 

CAROLINE.     [To  HILDEGARDE.]     A  sort  of  socialistic  mess. 
SUSAN.     [Incredulously.]     But  you're  not  Socialists,  are 
you?  [She  drops  her  bread  and  knife. 

HILDEGARDE.     Not  all  of  us. 

SUSAN.  [Reassured  and  beginning  to  eat  again.]  Oh, 
that's  better. 

HILDEGARDE.  But  then  we've  got  an  Anarchist  or  two 
among  us. 

SUSAN.      [Anxiously,  pausing  in  a  mouthful.]      Oh ! 
HILDEGARDE.      [Continuing.]      All  interested  in  improv 
ing  conditions. 

SUSAN.     [Approving  charitably.']     Ah. 

[She  resumes  eating. 

LAWRENCE.  [Rising.]  Psh!  [Mysteriously.]  It's 
coming!  [SUSAN  is  apprehensive,  as  he  goes  to  the  hall 
door  and  opens  it.]  I've  got  a  long  distance  nose!  The 
soup!!  [He  returns  to  his  chair  as  MURTHA  enters 

carrying  four  soup-bowls  on  a  very  pre 
sentable  tray.  She  never  takes  her  eyes 
from  HILDEGARDE.  MURTHA  is  very  neat 
and  important.  HILDEGARDE  motions  her 
to  serve  her  first.  MURTHA  does  so. 

SUSAN.  [Seeing  MURTHA.]  Oh,  she's  all  right  again. 
I'm  glad. 

HILDEGARDE.     [To  MURTHA.]     Then  serve  Mrs,  Knollys. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  431 

CAROLINE.     [Waving  a  gloved  hand.]     I  never  eat  soup. 
[MURTHA  goes  to  SUSAN  and  helps  her,  then 
LAWRENCE.     She  stands  awkwardly  for  a 
moment,  but  very  quietly. 

HILDEGARDE.     [To  MURTHA.]     You  can  come  back  in  a 
moment  and  clear  off  the  bowls. 
MURTHA.     Yis,  ma'm. 
HILDEGARDE.     Leave  the  door  ajar. 

[MURTHA  is  about  to  exit,  carrying  the  tray 
•  with  CAROLINE'S  bowl  of  soup  on  it,  when 

she   is  passed  in   the   door   by   MICHAEL 
KRELLIN.    KRELLIN  is  a  Russian  by  birth, 
but    speaks    English    with    a    scrupulous, 
scholarly  exactness,  though  with  a  slightly 
foreign    accent.       Physically,    he     is    of 
medium  height,  lithe  and  slender  in  fgure, 
rapid  and  exact  in  his  movements.     His 
dress  is  clean   but  careless.     Everything 
about  him  betokens  a  fearless  definiteness 
of  mind.     He  has  a  shock  of  curly  hair. 
His  face  is  pale,  his  eyes  are  very  keen; 
and  when  he  looks  at  a  person,  he  is  likely 
to  peer  a  little  closer  into  their  faces  than 
the  usual  man.     His  speech  is  fluent  and 
incisive.     He   is   mentally   a  combination 
of  the  political  dreamer  and  the  practical 
meliorist,  who  has  saved  his  optimism  by 
fghting  for  the  next  reform  at  his  hand. 
His  manner  is  above  all  things  humorous 
and   easy,   with   a   sort   of   detached   im 
personal  impertinence.    He  has  the  assur 
ance  of  the  platform  orator. 

MURTHA.      [Meeting  him  at  the  door.]      Good  marnin',, 
Mishter  Krellin. 


432  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

KRELLIN.     Good  morning.     Eh?    Wait! 

[Stops  MURTHA  and  peers  into  the  tray. 
LAWRENCE.      [To   CAROLINE.]      There's    our   Anarchist. 

[HlLDEGARDE   TISCS. 

KRELLIN.       [Continuing     to     MURTHA.]       Here     .    .    . 
Hello— Hello!     I'll  take  that  soup. 

[He  has  already  deftly  lifted  it  from  the  tray. 
MURTHA.    Doan't  let  yer  modesty  wrong  you. 

[She  exits. 

KRELLIN.      [Joyously."]      Hildegarde,  Hildegarde!     I've 
news  for  you !     Good  news ! 

[He  goes  immediately  to  the  cupboard,  puts 
down  his  soup-bowl  deftly,  pulls  out  a 
drawer,  -finds  his  napkin  with  a  cheap  ring 
on  it,  picks  out  a  knife,  fork  and  spoon, 
puts  the  napkin  in  his  mouth,  takes  the 
bowl,  with  knife,  fork  and  spoon  in  one 
hand,  then  picks  up  a  chair  with  his  re 
maining  hand  and  advances  toward  the 
table. 

HILDEGARDE.      [Hesitatingly.']      Yes,,   Michael     .    .    . 
KRELLIN.     [During  the  above  business.']     Just  wait.     I'm 
as  hungry  as  a  wolf.     All  night  at  the  office. 
HILDEGARDE.     You  must  be  tired,  Michael. 
KRELLIN.     [His  voice  is  merry,  but  his  body  is  relaxed.] 
Not  very.          [He  puts   down   his   chair   between   SUSAN'S 
and  HILDEGARDE'S,  and  places  his  eating 
paraphernalia  on  the  table.    SUSAN  draws 
away,  as  he  sits  down.     CAROLINE  is  'un 
perturbed,     LAWRENCE  is  annoyed. 

KRELLIN^  [Peering  near-sightedly  at  SUSAN.]  Oh, 
you're  having  a  party.  I  didn't  see.  [Rising.]  Pardon, 
I  am  very  near-sighted;  and  I  have  broken  my  glasses. 
[About  to  withdraw.]  I'll  step  in  later. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  433 

HILDEGARDE.  Wait,  Michael.  [To  CAROLINE  and 
SUSAN.]  Mr.  Krellin  is  one  of  our  friends. 

KRELLIN.  Yes,  yes.  I  only  wanted  to  ask;  did  you 
finish  your  article? 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes.     It's  gone.     What's  the  news? 

KRELLIN.  You'll  have  to  write  a  special.  Despatches 
from  the  South  tell  of  the  final  settlement  by  arbitration 
with  the  Homestead  Mills.  Another  victory! 

[He  shakes  HILDEGARDE'S  hands  enthusiastically. 

HILDEGARDE.    Splendid,  but — [Turns  toward  CAROLINE.] 

KRELLIN.  [Continuing.]  A  ten  hour  day,  and  a  dollar 
ninety  cents! 

LAWRENCE.    The  Homestead  Mills !  those  are    ... 

[Turning  to  CAROLINE. 

CAROLINE.     Yes,  I'm  interested. 

HILDEGARDE.  My  friend  is  one  of  the  reporters  on  the 
"  ECHO."  He's  just  had  news.  May  I  present  him? 

CAROLINE.    And  which  way  has  the  strike  been  settled? 

KRELLIN.  [Coming  toward  her."]  You  will  be  glad  to 
hear  in  favor  of  the  shorter  hour  and  the  living  wage.  An 
other  milestone  passed ! 

HILDEGARDE.  Mrs.  Knollys,  this  is  Mr.  Krellin.  A 
member  of  our  co-operative  club.  We  don't  usually  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  till  dinner  time. 

KRELLIN.  [Has  leaned  toward  CAROLINE.]  Mrs. 
Knollys  .  .  .  Knollys?  [Peers  at  her,  then  at  HILDE 
GARDE,  then  again  at  CAROLINE.]  I  am  delighted  to  find 
you  here.  [Laughs  softly.]  God  is  a  great  dramatist! 

CAROLINE.     Why? 

KRELLIN.  I've  seen  you  before,  Madame;  and  I've  heard 
of  your  husband. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Quickly.]     And  this  is  Miss  Ambie. 

KRELLIN.     [Bowing.]     Ah,  yes     .    .    .     Miss  Ah     ... 

[He  goes  toward  her. 


434  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

SUSAN.     [Frightened.]     How  do  you  do !     ... 

[KRELLIN     sits     between     HILDEGARDE     and 
SUSAN.     Pause. 

KRELLIN.  [Partially  rising  with  his  knife  in  hand  and 
peering.]  Is  that  the  butter?  [He  takes  some  and  puts 
it  on  bread.  To  CAROLINE,  as  he  settles  back  in  his  chair.] 
Mrs.  Knollys,  I  put  you  on  your  guard.  Before  you  know 
it,  Hildegarde  will  persuade  you  to  invest  in  tenements  and 
make  you  a  five  per  cent,  philanthropist. 

LAWRENCE.     [Decidedly.]     No,  she  won't!     She — 

KRELLIN.  [Interrupting.]  Wait!  She  will  induce  you 
to  put  up  better  dwellings  for  the  poor;  so  they  can  live 
a  little  more  decently  on  their  miserable  wages.  You  will 
feel  charitable  towards  them,  because  they  will  give  you  a 
steady  five  per  cent.;  and  the  workingmen  will  be  made 
more  contented  with  conditions,  that  otherwise  they  might 
be  encouraged  to  radically  change. 

SUSAN.     [Horrified.]     But  don't  you  believe  in  charity? 

KRELLIN.  [Throwing  up  his  hands.]  Ah,  I  see!  An 
other  sentimentalist.  I  surrender! 

SUSAN.     I'm  no  such  thing! 

KRELLIN.  [Gracefully  looking  at  SUSAN  and  CAROLINE.] 
But  neither  of  you  is  old  enough  to  be  the  real  conservative. 

CAROLINE.      [Smiling.]      You're  a  radical? 

KRELLIN.  I  am  a  social  physician,  whose  prescriptions 
nobody  respects,  because  I  do  not  believe  in  wasting  time 
disguising  or  trying  to  cure  symptoms.  Poverty  is  the  real 
disease. 

CAROLINE.  Other  people  have  a  name  for  your  kind  of 
man. 

KRELLIN.     They  call  us  lots  of  names.     Which  one? 

CAROLINE.     They  call  you  "  muck-rakers." 

KRELLIN.  [Good  humoredly.]  Oh,  that  never  offends 
me.  To  make  all  beautiful  things  grow,  there  must  be  some 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  435 

one  to  stir  up  ...  ah  ...  unappetizing  things 
about  the  roots.  We  do  that.  [Pointing  to  CAROLINE.] 
Unfortunately,  however,  it  is  the  "  other  "  people  that  wear 
the  flowers.  So!  [He  eats  his  soup. 

LAWRENCE.  You  mustn't  take  him  seriously,  Mrs. 
Knollys. 

KRELLIN.  Never  listen  to  the  artists.  They  must  take 
nothing  seriously;  else  they  could  find  very  little  beauty 
in  anything.  They  are  spiritual  toy-makers  and  seducers. 
They  gather  the  flowers  and  forget  the  roots.  At  least 
don't  take  them  seriously  when  they  speak.  Admire  them 
when  they  do;  because  they  are  permitted  to  do,  and  don't 
know  how  to  speak.  Listen  to  us  when  we  speak;  because 
the  government  will  allow  us  no  other  liberty. 

[Eat*. 

LAWRENCE.    Nonsense,  Michael. 

KRELLIN.     [Appealing  to  CAROLINE.]     You  see,  that  is 
my  great  misfortune.     My  friends  never  know  when  I  am 
in  earnest.     What  else  is  there  to  eat? 
[At  this  moment  MURTHA  appears  with  a  tray  on  which 
are  chops  and  vegetables. 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  MURTHA.]  Take  these  things  off  be 
fore  you  serve  the  chops. 

[MURTHA,  without  a  word,  puts  the  tray  on 
the  cup-board,  and  deftly  removes  the 
empty  soup-bowls. 

KRELLIN.     [To  HILDEGARDE.]     Emmy  will  be  late. 

[MURTHA  during  the  next  speeches  serves  chops. 

CAROLINE.  [Resuming.]  Do  you  take  yourself  seriously, 
Mr.  Krellin? 

KRELLIN.  [With  a  quick  glance.]  That  means  you 
don't.  But  I  did  once.  That's  why  I  left  Russia. 

HILDEGARDE.  Mr.  Krellin  wrote  a  book  for  the  Radical 
movement,  and  the  government  didn't  like  it. 


436  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

CAROLINE.     Wise  government. 

[Henceforward  LAWRENCE  and  CAROLINE 
form  a  party  against  HILDEGARDE  and 
KRELLIN. 

KRELLIN.  Yes,  my  friends,  the  enemy,  were  making 
Russia  too  hot  for  me;  and  Siberia  has  always  been  too 
cold;  and — 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting.]  So  you  decided  to  make 
trouble  over  here. 

[SusAN  has  got  an  eating  devil  and  is  des 
patching  food. 

KRELLIN.    Precisely. 

CAROLINE.  And  in  that  work,  do  you  take  other  people 
seriously  ? 

KRELLIN.  Sometimes.  You  see,  I  am  neither  an  artist 
[Bowing  to  LAWRENCE]  nor  a  sentimentalist  [Bowing  to 
SUSAN]. 

SUSAN.  [Putting  down  her  knife  and  fork.]  Now  he 
means  me  again,  Carrie ! 

CAROLINE.  [To  KRELLIN.]  Then  you  and  I  might 
understand  each  other. 

KRELLIN.  Ah, — you  mustn't  ask  me  to  take  you  seriously, 
Mrs.  Knollys;  that  would  be  too  much  to  ask. 

CAROLINE.    Why  ? 

KRELLIN.  You  see,  I  know  you.  You're  a  spoiled  Ameri 
can  woman;  which  means  you  take  neither  our  government 
nor  yourself  seriously.  I  don't  blame  you;  neither  do  I. 
In  other  words,  we  have  a  sense  of  humor.  And  then  yout 
are  a  Saxon  woman;  which  means  to  a  Russian,  that  you 
have  elevated  hypocrisy  until  it  takes  rank  with  a  virtue. 
Otherwise  you  could  never  do  as  you  do.  [He  eats. 

LAWRENCE.  [Growing  nervous.]  For  heaven's  sake, 
stop  him ! 

HILDEGARDE.     Please,  Michael,  eat. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  437 

LAWRENCE.  [To  CAROLINE.]  He's  our  interminable 
talker. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Laughing  a  little  nervously  and  speaking 
to  CAROLINE.]  People  say  anything  they  think  here. 

KRELLIN.  [In  the  midst  of  a  mouthful.}  Yes,  when 
they  think !  [Then  to  SUSAN.]  When  they  think ! 

HILDEGARDE.  But  we  try  to  argue  about  principles,  not 
persons. 

CAROLINE.    But  I'm  not  interested  in  principles. 

KRELLIN.  [To  CAROLINE.]  Right  you  are!  Only  in 
volve  people  in  principles,  and  you  keep  them  harmless. 

CAROLINE.  [To  KRELLIN.]  But  do  go  on.  You  said 
you  saw  me  once  before. 

KRELLIN.  Yes.  I  was  detailed  at  the  dock  when  you 
arrived. 

CAROLINE.     [Not  so  pleasantly.}  '  Oh. 

[SUSAN  puts  down  her  knife  and  fork  again. 

KRELLIN.  [Continuing.}  And  a  dear,  a  very  dear  friend 
persuaded  me  to  lose  fifteen  dollars  on  your  account. 

CAROLINE.    That  was  a  very  dear  friend,  indeed. 

KRELLIN.  Ah,  yes,  I  had  a  beautiful  article  written, 
which  for  her  sake,  I  was  weak  enough  to  drop  ...  an 
article  about  the  humor  and  hypocrisy  of  the  American 
woman, — with  special  reference  to  yourself,  Mrs.  Knol- 
lys  .  .  .  [LAWRENCE  is  fearful,  pushes  back  his  chair. 
CAROLINE  has  waved  aside  the  chop  and  peas  that  MURTHA 
has  offered  her.}  [To  MURTHA.]  Bring  that  to  me.  I've 
had  no  breakfast.  [During  the  next  speeches  he  has  the 
business  of  taking  CAROLINE'S  chop,  etc.}  Shall  I  continue? 

LAWRENCE.     [Decidedly.}     No ! 

CAROLINE.     By  all  means. 

KRELLIN.  [To  the  others.}  You  see,  she  already  treats 
me  as  an  artist.  I  amuse  her. 

CAROLINE.     Immensely. 


438  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

KRELLIN.  That's  why  I  permit  myself  to  speak.  Well, 
to  resume:  strange  to  say,,  I  wrote  that  the  people  whose 
fortunes  have  been  made  in  industries  protected  by  the  gov 
ernment  are  always  the  very  ones  most  eager  to  evade  the 
customs  imposed  by  that  government  to  protect  their  in 
dustries. 

SUSAN.     [Fearfully.]     Carrie ! 

KRELLIN.  [Impatiently.]  Miss  Nambie — Miss  Pambie 
—Miss  .  .  . 

SUSAN.    Amble  is  my  name. 

KRELLIN.  Pardon,  quite  so.  I  do  not  include  you;  be 
cause  on  that  day  you  personally  lost  your  sense  of  humor. 
[To  CAROLINE.]  Your  money  is  made  in  protected  tin  plate. 
Your  husband's  in  protected  woollen  mills.  [Laughs.] 
You  see,  you  have  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  genius  for  hy 
pocrisy.  [Seriously.]  You  don't  respect  a  government  that 
will  let  your  factories  work  the  poor  the  way  they  do. 
Neither  do  I.  And  so  you  refuse  to  pay  the  customs  to  sup 
port  that  government.  No  more  do  I ! 

LAWRENCE.     Michael ! 

KRELLIN.  [Continuing  unperturbed.]  I  admire  you! 
Your  personal  discernment  and  your  sense  of  humor  were 
almost  worth  six  thousand  dollars  to  you.  I  admire  you 
personally — fifteen  dollars  worth;  and  that's  a  great  deal 
for  a  man  who  is  saving  up  in  order  to  get  married. 

CAROLINE.  [Quietly  leading  liim  on.]  Oh,  you  still 
believe  in  marriage.  That's  interesting. 

KRELLIN.  You  mean,  as  soon  as  we  are  inconsistent  we 
are  interesting.  [Wisely.]  You  believe  in  conventions  that 
you  do  not  observe;  7  for  a  time  observe  conventions  in 
which  I  do  not  believe. 

SUSAN.     [Horrifed.]     Don't  you  believe  in  marriage  ? 

KRELLIN.  [Bowing  to  her.]  Oh,  yes,  as  all  the  wnmar- 
ried  people  do. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  439 

SUSAX.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  it 
makes  me  very  uncomfortable. 

LAWRENCE.     [Laughing.']     Gag  him ! 

HILDEGARDE.     I'll  mix  the  salad. 

[She  gets  the  salad  bowl.     MURTHA  helps  her. 

CAROLINE.    Then  you  believe  in  women  too? 

KRELLIN.  Boundlessly.  And  in  every  capacity  of  citi 
zenship.  [SUSAN  pushes  back  her  chair  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  disgust.  KRELLIN  continues  to  CAROLINE.]  I  be 
lieve  especially  in  one,  the  one  I'm  going  to  marry.  I 
believe  in  eugenics  and  endowed  maternity — in  everything 
that  makes  for  a  superior  humanity.  [To  SUSAN.]  I  be 
lieve  that  by  our  foolish  laws  we  can  sometimes  save  people 
from  doing  what  they'd  like  to  do.  [To  CAROLINE.]  I 
should  like  to  save  people  from  being  what  they  are.  I 
believe —  Oh — I  believe  that  I'm  a  stupid  fool  for  telling 
you  sincerely  all  that  I  do  believe  in — and — [To  HILDE 
GARDE.]  Don't  put  too  much  vinegar  in  the  dressing. 

SUSAN.     [Outraged.]      I've  listened  long  enough! 

CAROLINE.    Why,  Susan !     What's  broke  loose  in  you  ? 

SUSAN.     I'm  bound  to  protest! 

KRELLIN.    Ah,  then  there's  hope  for  you. 

SUSAN.  [Scathingly.]  Oh,  I'm  not  clever!  but  I  think 
your  ideas  are  perfectly  ridiculous  and  detestable — all  of 
them! 

KRELLIN.  Thank  you.  I  would  have  doubt  of  them 
if  you  thought  otherwise. 

SUSAN.  [Continuing.]  And  as  for  women  as  citizens 
— women  voting  and  doing  the  work  of  men  .  .  .  Well., 
it's  bad  enough  now  as  it  is,  when  they  happen  to  hold  office 
under  the  government  .  .  . 

KRELLIN.     [Amused.]     I  remember.     You  had  difficulty. 

SUSAN.  [Unheeding  his  interruption.]  Yes,  we  had  an 
experience  at  the  customs ! 


440  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

CAROLINE.     [Warningly.]     Susan! 

SUSAN.  [Impetuously.]  There  was  a  hussy  there  when 
we  arrived  ...  Of  all  the  insolence  in  office  .  .  . 
Hah!  If  I  had  my  way  .  .  . 

[Stops  breathlessly. 

KRELLIN.  You  didn't  have  your  way.  That  was  the 
trouble,  wasn't  it? 

SUSAN.  Well,  I'd  like  to  meet  her  some  time  face  to  face 
— That's  all;  when  she  didn't  have  her  little  badge  upon 
her;  and  without  the  authority  of  the  government  behind 
her—  I'd  ... 

KRELLIN.     Yes — yes.     Excuse  me. 

[The  door  to  the  hall  has  opened  and  EMILY  MADDEN  ap 
pears.     KRELLIN  has  risen  alertly. 
SUSAN.     [Bewildered.]     What's  the  matter? 

[She  continues  to  talk  to  CAROLINE. 

KRELLIN.  [At  the  door  with  EMILY.]  Ah,  Emmy,  you're 
late. 

[He  starts  to  bring  her  down.    She  resists  a 

little,  seeing  strangers  present. 

CAROLINE.  [Seeing  EMILY.]  Susan,  you're  a  fool! 
SUSAN.  [Seated  with  her  back  to  the  door,  doesn't  see 
EMILY.  She  continues  to  CAROLINE,  mournfully:]  I  had 
no  right  to  drink  that  whisky.  It  always  makes  me  silly. 
[She  suddenly  turns,  following  CAROLINE'S  glance,  and  ex 
claims,  terrified:]  There  she  is!!  Don't  you  see  her? 
[Crumpled.]  Oh,  Carrjie,  it's  gone  to  my  head!! 

[She  makes  a  mad  clutch  at  her  head. 
CAROLINE.     Keep  quiet! 

LAWRENCE.  [To  CAROLINE.]  I'm  so  sorry.  [Then 
savagely  to  HILDEGARDE.]  Now,  you  see!  .  .  . 

[He  becomes  incoherent  and  swings  up  rear, 
sees  MURTHA,  stops  short  and  goes  to 
window. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  441 

KRELLIN.  [Bringing  EMILY  down."]  Emily,  there  is  a 
lady  here,  who  has  just  expressed  a  great  desire  to  meet  you. 

EMILY.     [Advancing  a  step.~\     Oh,  then,  I'd  be  deligh — 
[She  stops  and  recoils  as  she  recognizes  CAROLINE. 

SUSAN.  [Waving  her  hands."]  I've  had  quite  enough! 
I've  had  quite  enough ! !  [She  rises  as  if  to  go. 

KRELLIN.  [Gallantly. ]  Mrs.  Knollys,  Miss  Madden  is 
the  reason  for  my  belief  in  marriage. 

CAROLINE.  [Amused  and  pausing.]  Oh!  That  is  re 
markable. 

[She  suddenly  realizes  that  a  weapon  has 
been  placed  in  her  hands;  she  immedi 
ately  becomes  calm.  EMILY  is  in  silent 
desperation. 

KRELLIN.  [Proudly.]  It  was  due  to  her  persuasion  that 
the  article  I  wrote  about  you  was  never  published  in  the 
papers. 

CAROLINE.  [To  EMILY.]  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity 
to  thank  Miss  Madden  for  that,  and  [Significantly]  for 
many  other  favors. 

EMILY.     [Uncertainly.]     Oh,  I  am  sure     ...     I    ... 

KRELLIN.  [To  EMILY.]  I  needed  you,  my  dear,  to  save 
me  from  Miss  Ambie  and  defend  the  government.  Miss 
Ambie  agrees  with  you  about  the  government.  [To  SUSAN.] 
No? 

SUSAN.     [Vehemently.']     I  don't! 

KRELLIN.  [To  EMILY.]  She  does  not!  Another  con 
vert!  [Gesture  of  amusement.]  While  Mrs.  Knollys  and 
I  maintain  the  government  is  ridiculous.  [To  CAROLINE.] 
No?  [Suddenly  remembering.]  I'll  get  a  chair. 

[He  looks  for  one,  but  there  are  no  more. 

CAROLINE.  [To  KRELLIN.]  Don't  bother,  please.  Miss 
Madden  can  occupy  my  place. 

EMILY.     Oh,  no ! 


442  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  CAROLINE.]  Please  don't  disturb 
yourself.  [To  LAWRENCE.]  Larrie,  get  a  chair  from  your 
room.  [LAWRENCE  immediately  exits  left. 

CAROLINE.  It  won't  be  a  new  experience  for  Miss  Mad 
den.  She  has  already  occupied  my  place  before  this,  many 
times ;  and  for  a  long  time,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  yield 
to  her. 

KRELLIN.     [Perplexed.]     Is  that  so!     How? 

EMILY.  [In  terror.]  Oh,  Michael,  why  did  I  come 
here ! ! 

KRELLIN.     What's  the  matter,  Emmy? 

CAROLINE.  [To  EMILY.]  Have  no  fear,  Miss  Madden. 
Your  intended  husband  believes  in  women  "  boundlessly," 
and  "  in  every  capacity."  He  has  a  sense  of  humor  and 
admires  hypocrites.  He  will  be  consistent  to  his  views; 
but  I  am  sure  he  will  allow  me  to  be  equally  consistent  with 
mine. 

KRELLIN.  Carte  blanche!  [Seeing  LAWRENCE  re-enter 
with  the  chair.]  Here  we  are.  Now  we  can  listen. 

CAROLINE.  I  have  no  principles,  but  I  have  some  pre 
judices.  And  either  Miss  Madden  or  I  must  leave  the  room. 

SUSAN.    Oh,  Carrie! 

KRELLIN.  WThat  do  you  mean!  That  isn't  argument. 
That  is  evasion! 

LAWRENCE.  [Quickly.]  Emily  and  Michael,  you've  said 
about  enough !  Now  please  go ! 

[He  bangs  down  the  chair. 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  LAWRENCE.]  By  no  means.  Mrs. 
Knollys  will  be  good  enough  to  explain  herself. 

KRELLIN.     What  is  your  reason,  Mrs.  Knollys? 

CAROLINE.  [Charmingly.]  Since  you  insist,  it  is  simply 
because  I  refuse  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  my  husband's 
mistress. 

KRELLIN.     [Dawning.]     Ha ! ! 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  442 

HILDEGARDE.     [Simultaneously.]     Oh! 

KRELLIN.  [Fiercely.']  That's  a  lie !  A  black,  malicious 
lie ! ! 

CAROLINE.     Oh,  no! 

KRELLIN.  [Continuing.]  She  doesn't  even  know  your 
husband ! 

CAROLINE.      [Confidently  taunting.]     Ask  her! 

KRELLIN.  Madame,  I  am  not  here  to  insult  her  myself; 
but  to  defend  her  against  your  attempt  to  do  so. 

CAROLINE.  Ask  her,  and  you  will  learn  it  was  for  my 
husband's  sake  that  your  article  was  suppressed.  But  he, 
no  doubt,  has  paid  Miss  Madden  for  any  loss  you  may  have 
suffered.  Come,  Susan.  [To  HILDEGARDE.].  I've  had  a 
most  delightful  luncheon.  My  wrap,  Lawrence. 

[He  exits  left. 

KRELLIN.  [Quite  aggressive.]  Mrs.  Knollys,  of  course 
you  cannot  go  until  I  have  relieved  your  mind  from  any 
misapprehensions  you  may  have  concerning  your  husband. 

CAROLINE.  But  unfortunately  I  seem  to  affect  Miss 
Madden  disagreeably. 

[LAWRENCE  re-enters  with  wraps. 

MURTHA.  [Suddenly  coming  up  from  the  rear.]  Fer  th* 
love  o'  Gawd,  th'  poor  gurrl's  goin'  t'  faint!! 

[She  takes  EMILY  in  her  arms. 

EMILY.      [Weakly.]      Take   me   home,    Michael. 
Oh    .    .    .! 

MURTHA.  Now  there,  there,  there,  dearie,  doan't  ye 
moind.  .  .  . 

KRELLIN.  [To  MURTHA.]  Yes,  take  Miss  Madden 
home ! ! 

EMILY.     No!     Not  without  you,  Michael!! 

SUSAN.  [Terrified.]  Carrie,  Carrie!  Come  with  me! 
Come  home!!  I'm  sorry  we  ever  came!  These  awful 
Pe°Ple  •' !  [Gets  into  her  wrap. 


444  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

LAWRENCE.  Come,  Mrs.  Knollys.  [Then  to  KRELLIN 
and  EMILY.]  If  they  haven't  sense  enough  to  go! 

KRELLIN.     [Fiercely  to  CAROLINE.]     You  cannot  go ! 

LAWRENCE.     [To  KRELLIN.]     What  do  you  mean? 

KRELLIN.     I  have  something  to  say  to  Mrs.  Knollys ! 

SUSAN.  [As  he  comes  forward.]  Carrie,  if  you  don't 
come,  I  ...  [Weeps  in  fright.]  God  knows  what  they 
will  do ! 

HILDEGARDE.     [Beeseechingly.]     Michael,  go  with  Emily ! 

KRELLIN.  [Shaking  his  mane.~\  Mrs.  Knollys  has  per 
mitted  herself  to  utter  a  filthy,  vicious  lie !  And  I — 

HILDEGARDE.  [Going  to  him.]  But  this  is  not  the  time 
to— 

KRELLIN.       [In  fury.]     A  filthy  LIE!! 

LAWRENCE.  [To  KRELLIN.]  See  here,  you  can't  use  that 
kind  of  language  to  my  friend! 

KRELLIN.  [Savagely  to  LAWRENCE.]  Your  friend!  You 
little  lap-dog!  I  want  nothing  from  you!  Just  look  to 
yourself ! !  [He  flings  LAWRENCE  aside. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Beseechingly.]  Michael,  go  with  Emily ! 
She  needs  you. 

[She  turns  him  around,  and  he  sees  EMILY 
being  helped  to  the  door  by  MURTHA. 

EMILY.  [As  she  leaves  with  MURTHA.]  Michael.  .  .  . 
Michael.  .  .  . 

KRELLIN.  [With  suppressed  vehemence.]  Mrs.  Knollys, 
I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  continuing  this  con 
versation  in  the  presence  of  your  husband. 

[He  bows  and  exits,  after  MURTHA  and  EMILY. 

SUSAN.  [Incoherently.]  Carrie,  here  are  your  things! 
Here!  Of  all  the  frightful  experiences!  [Spinning 
around.]  WThere's  my  glove?  You  must  get  out  of  this!! 

HILDEGARDE.  Mrs.  Knollys,  7  must  have  a  word  with 
you. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  445 

SUSAN.  [Dizzily.]  Now  she's  going  to  begin!.  Why 
did  we  ever  .  .  .  ? 

LAWRENCE.  [Angrily.]  Hildegarde,  don't  you  think 
you'd  better  drop  it? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Meaningly.]  It  isn't  only  in  reference 
to  Miss  Madden  that  I  wish  to  speak. 

SUSAN.  [Hysterically.]  I  knew  it,  Carrie !  [To  HILDE 
GARDE.]  But  you're  wrong!  No  matter  what  you  think. 
.  .  .  People  have  such  vile  minds!  [Specifically.]  I 
was  with  Mrs.  Knollys  all  the  time,  except  once  when  I 
took  sick.  .  .  .  Your  husband  knows  it — and  so  does 
Mr.  Knollys.  .  .  . 

LAWRENCE.     What  are  you  talking  about? 

SUSAN.  [Continuing.]  And  if  her  kindness  is  to  be 
misinterpreted — then — 

LAWRENCE.  [Angrily.]  Say,  Miss  Ambie,  what's  on 
your  mind?* 

CAROLINE.      [To  LAWRENCE.]     Psch! 

SUSAN.      [Collapsing.]     Oh,  everybody's  crazy! 

LAWRENCE.  [Disgusted.]  You're  right  there.  [He 
turns  helplessly.]  Hildegarde,  I  hope  that.  .  .  .  Oh, 
what's  the  use ! 

CAROLINE.  [Abruptly.]  Quite  so,  Lawrence;  get  Susan 
home. 

[SUSAN  has  got  rapidly  to  the  hall  door. 

LAWRENCE.     But,  Hildegarde,  I — 

CAROLINE.  Please  go.  I  wish  to  talk  with  your  wife. 
[LAWRENCE  takes  his  hat.]  Send  the  motor  back  for  me 
immediately.  [He  crosses  to  the  door.  There  is  a  look 
full  of  crowded  meaning  between  HILDEGARDE  and  CARO 
LINE;  then  CAROLINE  continues  to  LAWRENCE.]  Oh,  and 
remember,  you  have  engagements  for  this  afternoon. 
[LAWRENCE  exits  with  SUSAN.  HILDEGARDE  closes  the  door 
after  him.  There  is  a  pause  of  sizing  up  between  the  two 


446  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

women.]  [Amused.]  You're  not  going  to  lock  me  in;  I 
hope. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Gravely.]  No.  But  after  you  leave  this 
room,  I  want  you  to  pass  out  of  our  lives  forever. 

CAROLINE.  Your  life?  That's  very  simple.  You  have 
something  else  to  say  to  me? 

HILDEGARDE.  So  many  things, — I  hardly  know  where 
to  begin. 

CAROLINE.  Let  me  help  you.  We'll  eliminate  Miss 
Madden. 

HILDEGARDE.  We  will  not  eliminate  Miss  Madden.  We 
have  a  different  sense  of  values,  you  and  I ;  but  we  both  are 
married  women.  Emily  is  different.  She  has  nothing  but 
her  friends,  Michael  and  me.  And  we  together  will  force 
you  to  retract. 

CAROLINE.     Retract  the  truth!     What  else? 

HILDEGARDE.     And  make  a  full  apology  to  her. 

CAROLINE.     I  have  never  apologized  in  my  life. 

HILDEGARDE.  Then  you  have  a  new  experience  in  store 
for  you.  [Pause.]  What  was  your  purpose  in  coming  here 
to-day  ? 

CAROLINE.  [With  charming  frankness.]  You  know.  Mjr 
interest  in  your  husband. 

HILDEGARDE.    And  now,  you  think  you  can  eliminate  me. 

CAROLINE.  Why?  Your  husband  has  his  own  career; 
and  you  are  sensible. 

HILDEGARDE.  It's  a  dangerous  thing  to  interfere  with 
other  people's  lives. 

CAROLINE.     Yes.     We  discussed  that  some  time  ago. 

HILDEGARDE.  You  told  me  then  that  I  might  hinder 
him, — that  my  very  work  in  the  world  might  be  an  obstacle. 
Since  then  I've  left  him  free.  I  haven't  influenced  him — 

CAROLINE.     Oh,  don't  make  virtues  of  your  inabilities. 

HILDEGARDE.    You  mean? 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  447 

CAROLINE.  Don't  boast  of  what  you  couldn't  do.  You 
know  you  couldn't  keep  him  here.  Don't  say  you  didn't 
want  to.  That  would  be  weak. 

HILDEGARDE.  I  don't  wish  to  speak  of  Lawrence.  I  wish 
to  speak  of  you.  I  am  told  the  world  of  art  needs  women 
of  your  kind.  You  have  everything — wealth,  influence, 
position.  You  hold  patronage  and  opportunity  in  your 
hands. 

CAROLINE.  [Interrupting.'}  Why  don't  you  add :  "  You 
hold  my  husband  too  "  ?  In  other  words,  that  you  regret 
your  bargain ;  and  you  want  me  to  send  him  back  to  you. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Scornfully.]  Oh,  no!  But  don't  make 
the  price  for  your  patronage  so  high,  that  a  man  must 
sacrifice  his  self-respect  to  gain  the  prize  you  offer. 

CAROLINE.  [Quietly,  after  a  look.]  I  never  dreamed 
that  you'd  be  jealous;  are  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Fervently.]  Yes,  I  am  jealous — jealous 
for  him,  but  not  of  him! 

CAROLINE.  I've  given  him  the  opportunity.  He  has 
chosen. 

HILDEGARDE.    He  hasn't ! 

CAROLINE.     Then  why  are  you  so  anxious? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Continuing.]  To  choose,  one  must  be 
independent.  He  isn't.  He  thinks  he  dare  not  choose 
against  you.  He  fears  to  jeopardize  commissions.  There's 
where  you  make  unscrupulous  use  of  your  advantages ! 

CAROLNE.  [With  a  smile.]  My  dear  Mrs.  Sanbury,  I 
may  be  mistaken;  but  you  seem  bent  on  telling  me  your 
husband  doesn't  care  for  me.  Is  that  what  you  mean? 

HILDEGARDE.  No.  [Suddenly.]  What  are  you  trying  to 
make  me  think? 

CAROLINE.  Think  what  you  like.  7  make  no  disguises. 
But  I  marvel  at  you. 

HrLDEGARDE.      At  me  ! 


448  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

CAROLINE.  I  thought  you  weren't  a  feminine  woman. 
You're  interested  in  so  many  things  beside  your  husband. 
I've  interested  myself  in  him.  If,  in  that  interest,  you 
think  that  he  has  gone  beyond  what  you  expected;  why 
not  speak  to  him? 

HILDEGARDE,     He's  lost  his  senses  !    You've  blinded  him ! 

CAROLINE.  I  thought  I  had  opened  his  eyes.  You  see, 
Love  isn't  blind.  The  trouble  is,  it  sees  too  much! 
[Obliterating  her  with  a  glance.~\  It  sometimes  sees  things 
that  aren't  there  at  all.  It  isn't  my  fault  if  now  he  sees 
things  as  they  are.  I  open  everybody's  eyes.  That's  my 
profession.  [Significantly.]  I've  opened  yours,  I  hope. 
I've  opened  Mr.  Krellin's.  [She  laughs. 

HILDEGARDE.  Yes,  and  tried  wantonly  to  destroy  his 
faith  in  Emily,  as  now  you're  trying  to  destroy  my  faith  in 
Lawrence. 

CAROLINE.     Ah,  then  you  are  afraid ! 

HILDEGARDE.     [Uncertainly.']     Afraid  of  what! 

CAROLINE.  You  fear  to  lose  your  husband's  love.  Of 
course,  you'll  struggle. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  never  struggle  for  what  is  mine. 

CAROLINE.     Hum. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Nervously.]  I'm  not  afraid  of  Lawrence. 
Your  insinuations  don't  affect  me — you  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.     Indeed.     Then  why  this  argument? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Amazed.]  You'd  like  to  make  me  think 
my  husband  is  your  lover!  [She  draws  a  sharp  breath. 

CAROLINE.    And  if  that  were  the  case —    What  then? 

[Pause. 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  no!     You  wouldn't  boast  of  it! 

CAROLINE.  [Quietly.]  I  never  boast.  Only  the  in 
secure  do  that. 

HILDEGARDE.     It's  a  lie !     It's  a  lie ! !     It's  a  lie ! ! ! 

CAROLINE.     Ask  him. 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  44-9 

HILDEGARDE.  You  mean  you  would  have  me  ask  my  hus 
band  such  a  question? 

CAROLINE.    Why  not? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Suddenly  calm,  and  seeing  through  CARO 
LINE.]  Because  it  isn't  important  enough,  Mrs.  Knollys. 

CAROLINE.  You  mean,  your  husband's  fidelity  isn't  im 
portant  to  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  Oh,  yes,  but  there's  far  more  at  stake. 
For  his  sake,  I've  stepped  aside.  I've  given  you  every 
chance  with  him;  because  you  may  have  helped  him. 
...  I  don't  know.  You've  taken  his  time,  his  mind, 
his  work,  his  energy.  He  has  amused  you,  fed  your  vanity 
and  gratified  your  sense  of  power  over  people.  I've  been 
patient.  I've  left  him  free  to  choose.  For  if  a  woman 
like  you  can  take  the  rest  of  him  from  me;  he  isn't  worth 
my  energy  to  keep.  I  don't  want  even  a  part  of  him; 
if  anything  is  withheld — 

CAROLINE.  [With  an  amused  sneer.]  And  what  have  I 
to  do  with  your  ideal  of  marriage? 

HILDEGARDE.  I  don't  approve  of  the  way  that  you  make 
use  of  the  protection  of  your  husband's  name! 

CAROLINE.     Then  you'd  better  see  my  husband. 

[She  goes  toward  the  hall  door. 

HILDEGARDE.     Perhaps  I  shall. 

CAROLINE.  He'll  be  delighted  to  discuss  Miss  Madden. 
Mr.  Krellin  also  wants  to  speak  with  him.  He'll  welcome 
you  both;  I'm  sure.  [Turning  casually.]  He's  just  back 
from  the  South.  He'll  be  in  splendid  humor  after  all 
you've  done  for  him  in  shutting  up  the  mills.  Good-by. 

[She  exits  in  smiling  good  humor. 

[HILDEGARDE  stands  by  the  table  and  slowly 

sinks  into  a  chair.     The  hum  of  tenement 

life   becomes   audible.     A    baby   is   heard 

crying;  and  every  detail  that  can  be  de~ 


450  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

veloped,  pointing  to  the  barren  squalor 
of  her  life  is  emphasised  as  in  contrast 
with  the  elegance  of  MRS.  KNOLLYS. 
HILDEGARDE  sits  lost  in  thought,  while  the 
hub-bub  swings  around  her.  Suddenly 
the  telephone  begins  to  ring.  HILDE 
GARDE  doesn't  notice  it  at  -first.  The  bell 
continues.  HILDEGARDE  seems  to  come  to 
her  senses  with  a  start.  She  goes  to  the 
'phone,  takes  receiver  and  listens  mechani 
cally. 

HILDEGARDE.  Yes.  .  .  .  This  is  Mrs.  Sanbury.  .  .  . 
Who  is  this  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Miss  Ambie.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Knollys  has  just  left.  .  .  .  [Coldly.]  I  quite 
understand.  Yes.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  .  .  .  [Suddenly.] 
Wrait!  Hello!  [Quietly.]  Is  Mr.  Sanbury  still  there? 
[MURTHA  has  entered  softly  from  the  hall,  and  goes  to 
clear  up  the  table.]  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  I  should  like  to 
speak  with  him.  [Pause.  She  speaks  very  tenderly.]  Is 
this  you,  Larrie?  .  .  .  I'm  sorry;  but  it  couldn't  be 
helped.  .  .  .  She's  just  left.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Nothing 
has  happened.  .  .  .I'd  just  like  to  speak  with  you;  as 
soon  as  you  can  get  here.  .  .  .  Larrie!  .  .  .  What? 
.  .  .  You  can't?  .  .  .  [Long  breath.]  Then  I'll  wait 
for  you.  .  .  .  This  evening  too  .  .  .  ?  ...  Well, 
listen,  Larrie,  you  must  come.  .  .  .  No.  ...  I  can't 
speak  of  it  over  the  'phone.  ...  I  must  see  you;  and 
as  quickly  as  possible.  .  .  .  But  this  is  important  too ! 
[Pause.]  No!  I  can't  wait!  ...  Do  you  understand, 
Larrie,  I  won't  wait ! ! ! 

[She  claps  up  the  receiver  and  crosses  to  her 
room  exclaiming  hysterically:  "I  won't 
wait!!  7  won't  wait!!  "  MURTHA  goes 
on  quietly  clearing  up  the  dishes  at  the 


Act  II]       THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  451 

table.  HILDEGARDE  is  heard  pulling  out 
drawers  violently  and  pushing  them  back 
again.  MURTHA  shakes  her  head  sorrow 
fully.  She  has  cannily  sensed  the  situa 
tion.  HILDEGARDE  re-enters,  carrying  a 
small  satchel,  which  she  places  on  a  chair 
next  to  the  table.  During  the  following 
scene  she  packs  it  with  a  dressing  gown, 
tooth  brush,  hair  brush  and  comb,  slip 
pers,  night  gown,  etc.  Several  times  dur 
ing  the  scene  she  exits  rapidly  to  her  room 
for  these  toilet  articles,  and  returns,  with 
out  interrupting  the  dialogue. 

MURTHA.  [As  HILDEGARDE  enters  carrying  her  satchel.] 
Ye  ain't  goin'  away;  are  ye? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Jamming  things  into  the  grip."]  Yes 
...  yes  ... 

MURTHA.  [Suddenly.]  Ah,  where's  me  head !  I  saw  th' 
Doolans.  They've  got  a  date  wid  you,  they  say. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Going  to  her  room.]  I  don't  want  to  see 
them. 

MURTHA.     [Calling  after  HILDEGARDE.]     Th'  agent  says 
he's  goin'  to  throw  him  out. 
HILDEGARDE.     He  deserves  it. 

MURTHA.  Ah,  but  jisht  a  word  from  you.  .  .  .  Moy, 
th'  poor  woman  an*  th'  fambly.  .  .  . 

HILDEGARDE.  [Entering  and  continuing  her  packing.] 
I  can't  help  them. 

MURTHA.  Doolan  wanted  to  come  here  to  apologoize; 
but  Oi  told  him  he'd  bedther  not.  He'd  be  met  on  th'  door- 
shtep  wid  a  lump  av  his  death ! 

HILDEGARDE.  You  can  tell  them  the  ejection  office  will 
tend  to  them. 

[She  exits  again  and  immediately  re-appears. 


452  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN       [Act  II 

MURTHA.  Shure,  it's  not  you  that's  talking  dearie;  and 
Oi  can't  go  down  there!  Th'  avvicer  would  see  me  oye, 
and  know  th'  Doolans  done  it.  ...  Oh,  where's  that 
shtuff?  They  say  it's  goin'  blue  on  me.  .  .  .  An'  you 
wouldn't  have  thim  turned  out  in  th'  shtreet.  .  .  . 

HILDEGARDE.  [Pointing  to  the  shelf  above  the  sink."] 
It's  over  there.  You'd  better  take  it  with  you. 

MURTHA.  Thank  ye.  [Tenderly  coaxing.']  Go  on  now, 
you.  Go  on  now,  shishter.  .  .  .  Take  him  back  and 
let  him  shtay. 

HILDEGARDE.  After  what  they've  done  to  you;  it  seems 
queer  that  you  .  .  . 

MURTHA.  Shure  ye  can't  be  angry  wid  th'  min  folks. 
.  .  .  They're  chilthren  all  av  thim.  [Piling  up  dishes.'] 
Some  gits  crazy  over  the  booze,  and  some  gits  crazy  over 
polyteecks  .  .  .  and  some  gits  crazy  over  wimmin  .  .  . 
[Picking  up  all  the  dishes]  and  th'  resht  gits  crazy  over 
nothin'  at  all.  [Coaxingly. .]  Go  on  now.  .  .  .  Give 
iviry  body  anither  chanct.  That's  what  I  allus  says.  [Sing 
ing  out.]  Ha!  Now  there's  moy  Tim — Ha!  Oi  could  ha' 
left  him  any  toime  this  forty  years  fer  what  he  done  to  me 
— and  what  he  didn't  do.  .  .  .  G'wan  now,  dearie,  give 
th'  man  anither  chanct.  [HILDEGARDE  leaves  the  grip.] 
Th'  Lord  love  ye,  that's  roight  .  .  .  and  it's  th'  gran' 
good  heart  ye  have.  [HILDEGARDE  goes  toward  door  of  her 
room.  MURTHA  continues  with  a  wise  and  tender  canni- 
ness.]  And  .  .  v  ah  ...  yell  not  be  needin'  these 
things  roight  away.  .  .  .  [She  throws  the  grip  into  her 
room.]  You'd  bedther  shleep  here  fer  to-night.  .  .  . 
[HILDEGARDE  has  exited  sobbing  brokenly.  MURTHA  re 
turns  to  the  work  of  clearing  up  the  table.  She  shakes  her 
head  and  exclaims:]  Shure,  they're  chilthreil!  Ivery 
blessed  wan  of  thim — just  chilthren. 

[The  CURTAIN  descends  on  the  Second  Act. 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  453 


ACT  III 

[The  scene  is  the  same  as  Act  II.  It  is  about  eight-thirty 
of  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  The  table  has  been 
cleared  and  everything  is  restored  to  order.  The  door 
of  HILDEGARDE'S  room  is  open.  There  are  no  lights  on 
the  stage,  but  the  scene  is  dimly  lit  by  the  glow  of  lights 
from  the  flats  in  the  rear. 

After  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  KRELLIN  enters  from 
the  hall  door,  and  goes  immediately  to  the  telephone 
on  the  typewriting  desk.] 

KRELLIN.      [With  the  'phone.]      Hello — give  me  seven- 
one-one  Plaza — yes,  if  you  please.     No,  seven-one-one. 
[Enter  LAWRENCE  from  the  hall,  flinging  the  door  back. 
KRELLIN.    Say,  be  quiet,  will  you? 

LAWRENCE.       [Nervously.]       Oh,    that    you,     Krellin? 
Where's  Hildegarde  ? 

[He  turns  on  a  light  over  the  table. 
KRELLIN.     Psch!      [To  'phone.]      Hello,  seven-one-one 
Plaza?     Yes.     Mr.   Krellin   of  the  "NEW  YORK   ECHO" 
would  like  to  speak  with  Mr.  Knollys. 

LAWRENCE.     [Startled.]     See  here,  Krellin,  you'd  better 
drop  it. 

KRELLIN.     [To  'phone.]     Then  I'll  ring  up  again — yes, 
later.  [As   soon   as   LAWRENCE   has   gathered   that 

HUBERT  is  out,  he  makes  a  gesture  of 
relief  and  flings  into  HILDE GARDE'S  room. 
He  finds  her  bag  and  immediately  re- 
enters  carrying  it.  KRELLIN,  in  the  in 
terim,  has  hung  up  the  receiver. 


454  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

LAWRENCE.     What  does  this  mean?     Where  is  she? 

[He  drops  the  bag  and  goes  uncertainly 
toward  his  room  at  the  left,  and  opens  the 
door. 

KRELLIN.    Have  you  been  drinking? 

LAWRENCE.     [Fiercely."]     That's  my  business ! 

KRELLIN.     H'm!     Have  you  any  other? 

LAWRENCE.  [Coming  towards  him.]  I  want  to  know 
where  my  wife  is ;  and  I  want  to  know  why  you're  telephon 
ing  my  friends ! 

KRELLIN.  Because  I  won't  let  your  friends  treat  my 
Emmy  the  way  you  let  them  treat  your  wife. 

LAWRENCE.  Don't  you  interfere  between  Hildegarde  and 
me!  Because,  if  you  do,  by  God,  I'll — 

KRELLIN.  I  don't  mix  in  with  you.  I  have  my  own 
-score  to  settle  with  Mr.  Knollys  and  his  wife. 

LAWRENCE.  [Seriously.]  Krellin,  I  advise  you  to  leave 
Mr.  Knollys  out  of  it. 

KRELLIN.     Ah,  you  are  afraid,  eh? 

LAWRENCE.     It  isn't  me — it's —  [He  hesitates. 

KRELLIN.  [Violently.]  So!  You  too!!  That  woman 
has  made  you  believe  that  Emmy — [He  goes  toward  LAW 
RENCE  angrily,  but  stops  and  laughs.]  I  don't  wonder 
Mrs.  Knollys  thinks  all  women  are  like  she  is! 

LAWRENCE.     [Violently. ]     You — ? 

KRELLIN.  [Quietly.]  All  the  more  am  I  determined 
now. 

LAWRENCE.  [At  his  wits'  end.]  There'll  be  an  awful 
mix-up!  I  don't  know  what  to  do!  [Sits  down  blankly. 

KRELLIN.  Don't  think  that  I  don't  know  why  you're 
afraid  of  Mr.  Knollys.  It  isn't  business — it  isn't  Emmy 
— it's  you.  [Scathingly.]  I  am  ashamed  of  you!  You'd 
let  this  lie  rest  on  my  Emmy's  shoulders,  rather  than  have 
the  truth  revealed  about  yourself.  Of  course  you  don't 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  455 

want  the  truth  to  come  out.  But  you  see,  I'm  different. 
I  don't  fear  the  truth.  And  if  your  conduct  with  Mrs. 
Knollys  cannot  stand  her  husband's  or  your  wife's  investi 
gation,  I  am  sorry.  That  is  all. 

LAWRENCE.  Get  that  idea  out  of  your  head!  I  don't 
fear  the  truth.  It's  Hildegarde  I'm  thinking  of,  and  only 
Hildegarde. 

KRELLIN.  [Scornfully.']  You've  thought  so  much  of 
her  these  last  four  months,  since — 

LAWRENCE.  I  have.  We're  down  to  rock-bottom,  Krel- 
lin.  We're  full  of  debts — even  my  life-insurance  is  gone. 
I've  given  up  my  job.  WVve  pawned  everything  that  we 
could  raise  a  cent  on;  and  Hildegarde's  stood  by  me.  That's 
why  you  can't  go  on  and  spoil  things  now,  by  dragging 
Mr.  Knollys  in.  [KRELLIN  laughs  scornfully.']  I  know  it 
looks  as  if  I  had  neglected  Hildegarde;  but  she  under 
stands.  I've  had  to  hold  on  to  this  one  chance,  tooth  and 
toe-nail.  [Desperately.]  I  won't  let  anything  interfere 
with  it!  Not  you,  nor  Hildegarde — nor  Emily — nor — 

KRELLIN.     [Interrupting.']     Is  that  so !    Well,  no  matter 

what  it  costs  to  you  or  anybody  else,  we  make  Mrs.  Knollys 

eat   those   lying   words    she    said    about   my    Emmy.      So. 

[KRELLIN  exits  through  the  hall  door. 

[LAWRENCE  stands  perplexed  for  a  moment, 

then   goes   decidedly    to   the   'phone   and 

rings  up. 

LAWRENCE.  Hello — give  me  one-four-three-three  Plaza 
— yes — in  a  hurry,  please.  [Pause.]  Central,  they  must 
answer.  It's  a  private  wire  and  they  are  expecting  me  to 
ring  them  up.  [Pause.  Then  with  an  exaggerated  change 
to  a  very  polite  manner.]  Oh,  hello — Is  that  you,  Caroline? 
I've  been  very  busy — yes — all  afternoon.  Yes,  I'm  so  sorry, 
but  I  shan't  be  able  to  get  back —  Nothing's  happened 
to  my  voice;  but — ah — the  fact  is  I've  had  an  accident 


456  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

,  .  .  only  my  ankle —  Oh,  nothing  serious — I'm  sure, 
so  don't  be  alarmed.  .  .  .  Yes,  getting  out  of  the  cab. 
...  I'm  telephoning  from  a  drug  store.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
is  painful;  but  I'm  sure  it's  only  wrenched.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I'll  ring  up  my  doctor  as  soon  as  I  get  home.  ...  I 
shall  be  quite  alone.  .  .  .  Please  don't  worry.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  can  tend  to  everything.  [Pause.]  I've  already 
telephoned  to  Mrs.  Millette.  .  .  .  Mercy,  no,  I  wouldn't 
have  a  nurse  touch  me.  ...  Yes,  I'll  telephone  in  the 
morning  .  .  .  yes,  then  as  soon  as  he  has  left,  I'll  ring 
you  up  and  tell  you  what  his  diagnosis  is.  ...  Hilde- 
garde?  .  .  .  No,  I  haven't  seen  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  not 
because  of  anything  that  happened  here.  .  .  .  She's — 
she  left  this  afternoon  to  spend  the  week-end  with  some 
friends — yes — somewhere  in  the  country — Westchester. 
.  .  .  No,  I  shan't  send  for  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  if  there's 
anything — bat — Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  .  .  .  Good-by. 
[He  rings  off.  During  the  last  part  of  the 
above  speech,  HILDEGARDE  has  quietly 
entered  from  the  hall  door. 

LAWRENCE.  [Relieved  and  confused.]  Oh — Westches 
ter! — I  mean,  I've  just  been  telephoning. 

HILDEGARDE.     I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  this  evening. 
[She  goes  to  her  typewriting  desk  for  some  letters,  etc. 

LAWRENCE.  Well,  there  was  something  in  the  sound  of 
your  voice  over  the  'phone  that  made  me  nervous;  and  I 
lied  out  of  my  engagements.  As  usual,  said  the  first  foolish 
thing  that  came  into  my  mind.  Now  I'll  have  to  stick  to 
it,  I  suppose. 

HILDEGARDE.    Why  do  you  always  lie  these  days  ? 

LAWRENCE.     I  never  lie  to  you. 

HILDEGARDE.     Is  that  really  the  truth? 

LAWRENCE.    Why,  yes ! 

HILDEGARDE.    Why  did  you  say  I  was  in  Westchester? 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  457 

LAWRENCE.     I  didn't  know  where  you'd  gone  to,  and — 

HILDEGARDE.  Didn't  you  say  I'd  gone  to  Westchester 
because  you  were  afraid  that  Mrs.  Knollys  would  be  jealous 
of  your  spending  an  evening  alone  with  me? 

LAWRENCE.  What  have  you  got  in  your  head?  [She 
looks  at  him.  He  continues.]  I  had  to  say  something  to 
get  out  of  things.  Then  I  come  home  and  find  your  bag 
packed.  WThere  are  you  going? 

HILDEGARDE.     I  think  it  best  I  go  away  a  little  while. 

LAWRENCE.    Away?    Where  to? 

HILDEGARDE.  I  haven't  decided.  I  was  going  to  leave 
a  note  for  you ;  but  Michael  told  me  you  were  here ;  so  I— 

LAWRENCE.  [Bursting.]  Michael!  Do  you  know  what 
he's  doing?  And  just  now,  of  all  times!  When  everything 
depends  on  Mr.  Knollys? 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes,  I  advised  him. 

LAWRENCE.  What !  [Pause.]  Hildegarde,  suppose  what 
Mrs.  Knollys  said  about  Emily  is  true? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Turning  sharply.]     Larrie! 

LAWRENCE.    Well,  I  said,  suppose  it's  true. 

HILDEGARDE.  It's  not.  And  even  if  it  were,  she's  not  the 
one  to  make  the  accusation. 

LAWRENCE.  Why  not?  [Pause.]  What's  in  your  mind? 
Krellin's  been  saying  things! 

HILDEGARDE.     Oh,  no. 

LAWRENCE.  I  know  it.  Why,  just  a  moment  ago  he 
said  that  I  was  afraid  to  meet  Mr.  Knollys. 

HILDEGARDE.     Afraid?     Why? 

LAWRENCE.     He  thinks  that  I — 

[He  hesitates. 

HILDEGARDE.     [In  a  level  tone.]     What — ? 

LAWRENCE.  That  I've  forgotten  you.  [Recklessly.] 
Oh,  I  don't  care  what  he  thinks,  except  that  I  don't  want 
you  to  get  wrong-headed.  I  thought  at  least,  you'd  under- 


458  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

stand.     There's  not  a  thing  I've  done  that  anybody  can't 
question. 

HILDEGARDE.  That's  ambiguous,  Larrie;  but  I  shan't 
question  you. 

LAWRENCE.  I  mean  that  anybody  can't  investigate.  I've 
never  really  lied  to  you;  have  I? 

HILDEGARDE.  No — not  lied  exactly — just  disguised 
things  to  make  it  easier  for  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  Larrie, 
my  clothes,  my  work,  our  home,  our  life  together,  your 
work  and  all  the  circumstances  and  people  that  have  come 
between  us. 

LAWRENCE.     Oh,  those  things !     I  don't  mean  them. 

HILDEGARDE.     What  do  you  mean? 

LAWRENCE.  [Blurting  it  out."]  I  mean  Car — Mrs. 
Knollys.  That's  what  you  mean;  and  that's  what  Krellin 
means. 

HILDEGARDE.     [Tremulously.']     Yes.     [She  turns  away.] 

LAWRENCE.  I  want  to  explain  everything,  right  from 
the  beginning — everything.  [She  moves  away.  He  fol 
lows.]  I  want  you  to  know  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth;  and  then  you  can  judge  for  yourself.  Oh, 
I'm  not  proud  of  what  I've  had  to  do;  but  there  isn't  a 
single  thing  that  you  can't  know  about — or  that  I'm  really 
ashamed  of — I  swear!  [There  is  a  knock  at  the  hall  door. 
LAWRENCE,  after  a  gesture  of  impatience,  continues:]  If 
that's  Krellin,  tell  him  I  want  to  be  alone  with  you.  He 
can't  telephone.  He's  got  to  leave  Mr.  Knollys  out  of  this. 
I  don't  want  Knollys  to  get  wrong-headed  too ! 

[He  has  followed  HILDEGARDE  who  has  moved 
up  to  the  door. 

HILDEGARDE.     [At  door,  to  LAWRENCE.]     Please! 

[She  opens  the  door  and  discovers  HUBERT 
KNOLLYS  standing  there. 

HUBERT.     [To  HILDEGARDE.]     I  couldn't  find  the  bell. 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  459 

LAWRENCE.     [Retreating.]     Oh,  Lord! 

HUBERT.     Mrs.  Sanbury,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you. 

[Extends  his  hand.     She  takes  it. 

HILDEGARDE.     I've  been  hoping  you'd  come. 

[LAWRENCE  is  surprised. 

HUBERT.     Thank  you. 

LAWRENCE.    Yes — we — 

HUBERT.  [Laconically  to  LAWRENCE.]  Oh — how  are 
you? 

LAWRENCE.  [Embarrassed.]  Oh,  finely  .  .  .  been 
pretty  busy  since  you  left;  but — 

HUBERT.  [Abruptly.]  Yes,,  so  I  hear.  [He  turns  to 
HILDEGARDE  and  points  to  a  chair.]  May  I? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Nodding.]     Let  me  take  your  things. 

[LAWRENCE  takes  his  hat  and  coat. 

HUBERT.  [Sitting  and  speaking  to  HILDEGARDE.]  I've 
just  got  back  from  the  South. 

LAWRENCE.  [Effusively.]  Yes,  we  heard  you  were 
away. 

HUBERT.  [Turning  quietly.]  I  was  rather  of  the 
opinion  that  you  knew  I  was  away. 

LAWRENCE.  Yes,  to  be  sure — of  course.  Did  you  have  a 
successful  trip  of  it? 

HUBERT.  [Ironically.]  Have  you  had  time  to  read  the 
papers  ? 

LAWRENCE.  I  was  interested  and  all  that;  though  I 
haven't  followed  the  strike  very  closely.  A  little  out  of 
my  line,  you  know.  So  if  you're  going  to  talk  economics, 
hadn't  I  better — ?  [He  starts  toward  his  room. 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting.]  There  are  some  things  I  wish 
to  discuss  with  your  wife.  I'd  rather  you'd  be  here.  That 
is,  if  you  don't  mind. 

LAWRENCE.     [Vaguely."]     By  all  means — not  at  all. 

[HILDEGARDE  turns  anxiously  to  HUBERT. 


460  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  You  know,  it  was  due  a 
little  to  your  suggestion,  I  went  South. 

HILDEGARDE.     And? 

HUBERT.  We've  increased  the  operative's  salaries  and 
killed  the  child  labor. 

HILDEGARDE.  We  know  about  the  splendid  settlement 
jou  forced. 

HUBERT.  [Grimly.]  I  couldn't  have  done  it  by  myself. 
You  opened  fire  on  my  competitors.  That  made  it  easy. 
It  looked  like  a  general  lock-out;  so  I  called  a  committee 
of  the  managers,  and  we  all  agreed  to .  meet  the  strikers' 
terms.  Alone,  I  would  have  made  a  Quixotic  failure. 
Well,  we've  yielded.  You've  kept  your  word;  I've  kept 
mine.  Now  we'll  see  what  the  workers  will  do  with  more 
money  and  shorter  hours.  Personally,  I  think  they'll  in 
vest  in  more  phonographs  and  liquor;  and  their  children 
will  continue  to  go  barefoot. 

HILDEGARDE.  Perhaps.  But  the  use  of  time  and  money 
must  be  learned. 

HUBERT.  They'll  have  their  chance.  Now,  for  the 
matter  that  brings  me  here  immediately.  [He  takes  out  a 
letter.']  I  received  this  by  messenger  this  afternoon — from 
Miss  Madden. 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes. 

HUBERT.    Miss  Madden  urges  me  to  see  you. 

HILDEGARDE.     She  told  me. 

HUBERT.  So  I  am  here  to  do  anything  I  can  in  the  way 
of  reparation. 

HILDEGARDE.  There's  only  one  possible  reparation.  Your 
wife  must  withdraw  her  statement  absolutely.  The  cir 
cumstances  are  such  that — 

HUBERT.     I  know. 

HILDEGARDE.     What  can  have  been  her  motive? 

HUBERT.     There  is  no  question  of  Miss  Madden's  inno- 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  461 

cence.  She  suffers  from  two  misfortunes.  Firstly,  she  is  a 
very  dear  friend  of  mine;  and  secondly,  she  was  of  service 
to  my  wife.  Gratitude  makes  some  natures  resentful.  I, 
however,  feel  a  great  obligation  to  Miss  Madden  for  avert 
ing  a  scandal,  that  my  wife's  ignorance  of  the  law  nearly 
precipitated. 

HILDEGARDE.  Mr.  Krellin  helped  her  hush  the  matter 
up.  But  now,  unless  your  wife  withdraws  her  statements, 
he  is  determined  to  publish  everything. 

HUBERT.  So  his  telegram  informed  me.  But  Mr.  Krel- 
lin's  threat  could  have  very  little  weight  either  with  Mrs. 
Knollys  or  with  me. 

HILDEGARDE.     Why? 

HUBERT.  You  must  surely  see  that  after  doing  all  he 
could  to  keep  the  matter  from  the  press,  it  would  be  ridicu 
lous  for  Krellin  now  to  make  an  exposure.  His  own  con 
duct  couldn't  stand  investigation.  [Pause.']  Will  not  my 
personal  apology  for  Mrs.  Knollys  to  Mr.  Krellin  and  Miss 
Madden  suffice? 

HILDEGARDE.  Considering  the  accusation  and  the  way 
you  are  involved,  I  should  say  not. 

HUBERT.  Perhaps  you're  right.  [Rises.]  I  suggested  it 
merely  to  show  you  how  really  powerless  we  are.  A  money 
damage  for  defamation  is  out  of  the  question — 

HILDEGARDE.     Quite. 

HUBERT.     Then  what  do  you  propose? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Firmly.]  That  right  here,  and  before 
the  very  people  in  whose  presence  Mrs.  Knollys  made  the 
accusation,  she  must  retract  and  with  full  apologies. 
Nothing  less. 

HUBERT.     [Involuntarily.]      I'd  love  to  see  it! 

LAWRENCE.     Hildegarde ! 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  Your  husband's  exclama 
tion  proves  that  he  and  I  know  my  wife  much  better  than 


462  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

you  do,  Mrs.  Sanbury.     He  appreciates  her  force  of  will. 
[To  LAWRENCE.]     Don't  you,  sir? 

[LAWRENCE  looks  on  guard  and  says  nothing. 

HILDEGARDE.  Is  your  wife  absolutely  indifferent  to  the 
social  consequences  of  her  own  conduct? 

HUBERT.     [Sitting. 1     Ah!    Why  do  you  ask? 

HILDEGARDE.  Because  immediately  after  having  accused 
Emily,  she  did  her  best  to  make  me  believe  my  husband  had 
become  her  lover. 

HUBERT.     [Attempting  to  be  surprised."]     What!! 

LAWRENCE.  [Bounding  out  of  his  skin.']  Hildegarde  ! ! 
[To  HUBERT.]  This  is  outrageous! 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes. 

[LAWRENCE  is  open  mouthed. 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  Are  you  sure  you're  not 
mistaken  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  Oh,  no.  On  the  contrary,  she  took  the 
greatest  pains  to  impress  it  on  me  with  all  the  malicious 
insolence  of  triumph  she  could  command. 

HUBERT.    But — why  do  you  tell  me  this? 

HILDEGARDE.  To  ask  you  to  use  it  as  you  think  best,  to 
help  me  to  force  your  wife  to  make  just  reparation  to  my 
friend. 

LAWRENCE.  [Finding  his  voice.']  It's  all  a  damnable 
lie!  A  whole-sale  rotten — ! 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting.]  Pardon,  I  should  reserve  such 
language  until  you  have  a  better  right  to  use  it. 

LAWRENCE.    Wh-what  do  you  mean? 

HUBERT.  Remember,  sir,  the  lady  you  are  speaking  of 
is  still  my  wife. 

LAWRENCE.  [Wildly. ~]  I  can't  help  that!  I  have  my 
wife  to  consider,  Mr.  Knollys,  and — 

HUBERT.      [Scornfully.']      Indeed! 

LAWRENCE.      [Continuing.']      And  with  all  deference  to 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  463 

your  wife,  I  must  repeat  that  if  your  wife  said  those  things 
to  my  wife,  your  wife  uttered  a  lie ! ! 

HILDEGARDE.     So  I  told  her  myself. 

HUBERT.  [Promptly.]  You  did  that  to  shield  your  hus 
band. 

LAWRENCE.  [Vehemently.]  And  I  protest  that  if  your 
wife — 

HUBERT.     [Sternly  to  LAWRENCE.]     Keep  quiet ! 

LAWRENCE.  [Spinning  about.]  For  God's  sake,  some 
one  do  me  the  favor  to  tell  me  that  one  of  us  is  blind  or 
deaf  or — 

HUBERT.     [Severely]     Sit  down!! 

LAWRENCE.  [Landing  into  a  chair  and  wailing.]  She's 
old  enough  to  be  my  mother! 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  Did  she  say  anything 
further  ?  Come ! 

HILDEGARDE.  She  wantonly  taunted  me  with  my  failure 
to  hold  my  husband.  When  I  told  her  I  did  not  believe 
her,  she  even  urged  me  to  question  him.  I  refused.  Please 
to  observe  I  have  not  questioned  him. 

LAWRENCE.      [Imploringly]     Oh,  why  didn't  you? 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  Why  did  you  not  question 
him? 

HILDEGARDE.  Because — simply  because  I  did  not  believe 
your  wife. 

LAWRENCE.     [Fervently]     Thank  God! 

HUBERT.  But  if  you  do  not  believe  her  statements,  why 
repeat  them  to  me  ? 

HILDEGARDE.  To  serve  my  friend,  I  shall  deliberately 
choose  to  believe  your  wife;  and  if  you  will  help  me — 

HUBERT.     [Interjecting]     Rely  on  that. 

HILDEGARDE.  Then  I  shall  act  as  if  everything  she  said 
.were  absolutely  true. 

LAWRENCE.    Oh,  Hildegarde  !    How  can  you !  ? 


464         .      THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

HILDEGARDE.  [To  HUBERT.]  In  that  way  we  can  turn 
her  arrow  against  Emily  into  a  boomerang  to  recoil  upon 
herself. 

HUBERT.  Hum.  Then  you  will  name  her  as  a  co-res 
pondent? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Genuinely  frightened.]  What!  You 
mean  divorce  my — divorce  Larrie? 

HUBERT.    Yes. 

LAWRENCE.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  See  here!  I'm  the 
one  that  your  damned  boomerang  is  hitting! 

HUBERT.     [To  HILDEGARDE.]     This  is  unavoidable. 

LAWRENCE.     See  here! — 

HILDEGARDE.  \_Expostulatingly  to  HUBERT.]  But  don't 
you  see  that  I  do  not  believe  her.  She  did  it  to  provoke  a 
jealous  quarrel;  and  if  I  judge  her  rightly,  she  will  with 
draw  her  insults  rather  than  endure  disgrace.  It  won't 
have  to  go  that  far!  D-Don't  you  see  that? 

HUBERT.  Thank  you  for  your  assurance,  but  I  must  dif 
fer  with  you. 

LAWRENCE.  [To  HUBERT.]  Why? — do  you  think  that 
I—? 

HUBERT.  [Calmly.]  I  think  there  is  an  important  person 
that  you  both  have  so  far  overlooked — myself.  [To 
LAWRENCE.]  You  have  chosen  to  protect  my  wife  by  call 
ing  her  a  liar.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  You  protect  your  hus 
band  by  calling  her  a  liar,  too.  It  seems  my  attitude  has 
been  neglected.  [HILDEGARDE  is  appalled. 

LAWRENCE.     [Bravely.]     Well — ? 

HUBERT.     Yes.     Here's  where  you  come  in. 

LAWRENCE.     [Crumbling.]     What  do  you  intend  to  do? 

HUBERT.  I  choose  to  believe  these  statements  for  my 
own  sake. 

HILDEGARDE.     You  can't!     You  can't!! 

LAWRENCE.     [To  HUBERT.]     You  don't  mean  to  say! — 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  465 

[To  HILDEGARDE,  wildly.]     He  believes  it!     He  believes 
it! 

HUBERT.  [Quietly.]  I  always  believe  my  wife  when 
she  affirms,  never  when  she  denies. 

HILDEGARDE.  [Stupefied.]  But,  Mr.  Knollys,  you  don't 
really  think  that  .  .  . 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting.]  My  dear  lady,  you  are  too 
gullible.  [To  LAWRENCE.]  Now,,  I  want  the  truth,  and 
I  expect  it  manfully. 

[He  approaches  LAWRENCE,  who  retreats. 

LAWRENCE.     This  is  perfectly  ridiculous! 

HUBERT.  [Taking  out  a  note-book.]  Please  have  the 
courtesy  to  remember  that  it  is  you  who  has  made  us  both 
ridiculous;  and  don't  thrust  it  down  our  throats.  [Consult 
ing  his  book.]  You  spent  at  least  a  week  with  Caroline 
alone  in  Italy. 

LAWRENCE.     That  isn't  true!     Susan  Ambie    .    .    . 

HUBERT.  [Promptly.]  I  have  seen  Miss  Ambie.  She 
did  more  than  confess.  She  attempted  to  defend  it. 

LAWRENCE.    Miss  Ambie  is  a  fool! 

HUBERT.  Quite  so.  [Continuing.]  Do  you  admit  being 
alone  with  Mrs.  Knollys? 

LAWRENCE.     [Pausing.]     Why — I — 

HILDEGARDE.     [Gone  white.]     Don't  deny  it,  Larrie. 

HUBERT.  [To  HILDEGARDE.]  I  heard  you  say  some 
weeks  ago  you  had  letters  to  that  effect. 

LAWRENCE.     [Imploringly.]     Hildegarde ! 

HILDEGARDE.     Yes.     I  have  them. 

HUBERT.  Very  good.  I  trust  you  to  produce  them  at 
the  proper  time.  [To  LAWRENCE.]  You  crossed  on  the 
same  steamer. 

LAWRENCE.  [Grasping  at  a  straw.]  Miss  Ambie  was 
with  us ! 

HUBERT.     Yes;  and  since  your  arrival  on  October  5th 


466  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

you  have  devoted  all  your  time,  practically  day  and  night, 
to  each  other. 

LAWRENCE.  [Angrily.']  I  won't  stand  here  and  have 
you  say  such  things  about  your  wife! 

HUBERT.  Am  I  to  be  the  only  one  who  does  not  say 
them? 

LAWRENCE.     She  simply — 

HUBERT.  [With  feigned  anger."]  Pray  do  not  explain 
my  wife  to  me.  [Continuing  from  his  note-book. ]•  On 
October  7th  you  actually  installed  yourself  under  my  roof 
— a  most  tasteless  procedure,  which  I  refused  to  counte 
nance.  I  went  South.  You  thought,  no  doubt,  that  open 
ness  would  disarm  suspicion.  It  doesn't  work.  As  part 
of  that  same  plan,  my  wife  openly  confesses  her  infatua 
tion  to  your  wife,  boasts  of  her  power,  and  then  further 
openly  denounces  an  innocent  woman,  in  order  to  pro 
duce  the  impression  that  her  own  actions  are  not  subject 
to  criticism.  Truly,  this  is  the  very  blindness  of  infatua 
tion.  [Laughs.]  I  admire  your  brass — but  really  it  won't 
do.  The  rest  of  us  are  not  so  blind.  I  compliment  you 
on  your  conquest  [Ironically'].  But  how  long  did  you 
imagine  I  would  allow  this  to  continue? 

LAWRENCE.    Mr.  Knollys,  all  that  I  can  say  is — 

HUBERT.  [Scathingly.]  At  least,  sir,  have  the  courage 
of  your  actions.  [Snapping  his  book  closed,  and  looking  at 
HILDEGARDE,  who  sees  she  has  awakened  a  Frankenstein.'] 
I  have  a  further  list  of  rendezvous,  which  I  shall  not  ask 
you  to  verify  in  the  presence  of  your  wife ! 

LAWRENCE.  My  wife  knows  everything  that  can  be 
said  about  me ! 

HUBERT.  I  doubt  it.  In  any  case,  your  protection  until 
now  has  been  your  wife's  credulity.  We  shall  see.  When 
my  lawyer — 

LAWRENCE.       [Interrupting."]       All    right.       Get    your 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  467 

lawyer.  Now  I'll  thank  you,  Mr.  Knollys,  to  leave  me  alone 
with  my  wife,  who's  never  doubted  me,  and  has  no  reason  to 
doubt  me  now.  I  have  the  courage  of  my  actions!  I'll 
bring  the  whole  thing  right  into  the  open — and  if  you 
can  stand  it,  I  can. 

[The  two  men  look  each  other  squarely  in  the 
eye.  Suddenly  the  bell  rings  over  the 
hall  door. 

HUBERT.     [Turning  to  HILDEGARDE.]     Is  that  your  bell? 
[HILDEGARDE  goes  directly  to  the  hall  door, 
opens  it  and  discloses  MRS.  KNOLLYS.  She 
is  magnificently  dressed  in  a  long  opera 
cloak  over  her  evening  gown.     She   has 
also  a  heavy  veil  about  her  head.     CARO 
LINE  enters  swiftly ,  then  stands  appalled. 
HUBERT.      [Recognising    her.]      Ah,    Caroline!       [Sur 
prise  of  all.     CAROLINE  undoes  her  veil  and  faces  him.] 
You  come  most  apropos.      [Sarcastically.]      Did  you  call 
to  see  Mrs.  Sanbury? 

CAROLINE.  [After  a  pause.]  I  ...  I  have  called 
for  you.  [She  comes  into  the  room. 

HUBERT.     Indeed!     How  is  that? 

CAROLINE.  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  opera.  I  assumed 
that  Miss  Madden  had  summoned  you.  I  thought  I'd  pick 
you  up. 

HUBERT.  How  kind  of  you.  But  may  I  ask  why  you 
assumed  that  I'd  be  here  in  Mrs.  Sanbury 's  apartment? 

CAROLINE.  Quite  naturally.  Mrs.  Sanbury  is  the  only 
other  person  interested  with  you,  in  deceiving  Mr.  Krellin 
and  whitewashing  Miss  Madden. 

HILDEGARDE.     Mrs.  Knollys,  my  husband  telephoned  you 
that  I  had  gone  to  Westchester;  so  you  couldn't  have  ex 
pected  to  see  me.  [LAWRENCE  is  desperate. 
HUBERT.      [To   CAROLINE.]     Oh,  you  expected  to  find 


468  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

Mr.  Sanbury  alone.  [After  a  glance  at  LAWRENCE,  lie 
turns  to  HILDEGARDE.]  Well,  then,  Mrs.  Sanbury,  let  us 
no  longer  intrude.  Will  you  direct  me  to  Miss  Madden? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Moves  to  the  hall  door,  then  turns.~\  Mrs. 
Knollys,  I  think  it  only  fair  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  re 
peated  to  Mr.  Knollys  the  whole  substance  of  your  con 
versation  with  me  this  afternoon. 

[HUBERT  opens  the  door.    HILDEGARDE  exits; 

and  he  follows,  closing  the  door  behind 

him.       LAWRENCE    is    standing    stupefied 

down  left.    CAROLINE  is  at  center.    Pause. 

CAROLINE.     [In  an  unsteady  voice.]     I  think  I'm  going 

to  faint. 

LAWRENCE.  [Putting  her  into  chair  at  the  table, 
anxiously.'}  Oh,  don't!  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  do  that. 
[She  sits.]  I'll  get  you  a  glass  of  water.  [He  goes  quickly 
to  the  tubs  and  pours  one  out  of  a  bottle.  Coming  to  her.] 
Here,  drink  this.  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  get  you? 
[She  sips  the  water.]  Shan't  I  send  for  some  one? 
CAROLINE.  [Ironically.]  For  whom? 

[She  drinks  the  water. 

LAWRENCE.  You  feel  better  now,  don't  you?  Shall  I 
get  you  some  salts? 

[He    moves    quickly    toward    HILDEGARDE'S 

room. 

CAROLINE.  No.  I'll  be  all  right.  [Suddenly.]  You  walk 
very  well. 

LAWRENCE.  [Stopping.]  Why,  yes,  I —  Shall  I  get 
you  home? 

CAROLINE.  [Caustically.]  No.  I  have  no  trouble  with 
my  ankle. 

LAWRENCE.  [Suddenly  remembering.]  Oh,  forgive  me, 
Caroline. 

CAROLINE.      [In  a  rage.]      Don't  call  me  Caroline!     I 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  469 

imagined  you  here  alone,  in  pain,  too  ill  to  telephone — I 
thought  you  might  be  glad  to  see  me.  I  lost  my  prudence. 
[LAWRENCE  turns  away.]  How  much  of  what  you've  said 
to  me  for  all  these  months  is  true  ?  What  did  you  mean  by 
taking  me  into  your  arms  to-day  and  .  .  .  Agh — ! ! 

[She  turns  from  him. 

LAWRENCE.      [Simply.]      I've  done  a  great  wrong. 

CAROLINE.  [Sarcastically.]  And  when  did  you  discover 
that? 

LAWRENCE.     After  I  kissed  you  to-day— the  way  I  did. 

CAROLINE.    That's  why  you  left  so  suddenly. 

LAWRENCE.     Yes. 

CAROLINE.     And  came  right  back  to  her? 

LAWRENCE.  I  tried  to  find  her,  but  I  couldn't.  I  was 
frantic.  I  looked  every  place.  I  really  thought  that  she 
had  left  me.  [In  a  low  voice.]  And  I  thought  that  I 
deserved  it.  Then  I  telephoned  to  you;  and  she  came  in. 

CAROLINE.  The  kiss  that  woke  your  prudence  put  mine 
to  sleep.  How  strange!  And  you  were  thinking  all  the 
time  of  her!  [She  laughs  hysterically. 

LAWRENCE.  Why,  yes.  Always!  My  work,  my  ambi 
tion, — even  my  gratitude  to  you  has  been  for  her  sake. 

CAROLINE.  Then  I  was  merely  the  ladder  on  which  you 
proposed  to  climb  and  pluck  the  golden  fruit  for  her! 

LAWRENCE.  I've  been  a  miserable  cad!  I  know  what 
you  must  think  of  me ! 

CAROLINE.    And  what  do  they  think  of  you? 

LAWRENCE.  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you?  Your  husband  in 
sists  upon  putting  the  worst  interpretation  upon  everything ! 

CAROLINE.     You  mean? 

LAWRENCE.  I  did  all  I  could  to  make  him  see  that  he 
was  wrong  in  doubting  you.  [A  withering  look  from  CARO 
LINE.]  Oh,  but  what  made  you  tell  those  outrageous  false 
hoods  about  us  to  Hildegarde!? 


470  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

CAROLINE.  [Rising  in  a  cold  rage.~]  The  word  false 
hood  can  only  be  applied  to  your  attitude  to  me.  I  took 
yon  for  an  artist,  eager  to  rise  above  and  to  be  free  from 
the  commonness  and  squalor  of  your  surroundings,  and  I 
•was  willing  to  help  you.  But  I  find  you  only  a  little  en 
trepreneur,  afraid  of  your  conscience,  and  satisfied  with 
year  mutton!  Well,  return  to  it!  [She  moves  away,  then 
tarns.']  I  have  one  more  direction  to  give  you.  Kindly 
xefrain  from  any  further  defense  of  me.  I  wish  to  speak 
to  my  husband.  Will  you  tell  him  I  am  waiting? 

[LAWRENCE  exits  through  the  hall  door. 
[CAROLINE  pauses  in  intense  thought,  then 
gathers  herself  together,  takes  her  vanity- 
box  from  her  opera  bag,  opens  the  mirror 
and  scrutinizes  herself  closely.  She  ad 
justs  her  hair,  smooths  her  eyebrows  and 
puts  a  little  rouge  on  her  lips.  She  re 
gains  her  absolute  composure  by  a  su 
preme  effort.  HUBERT  enters.  He  is  very 
self-possessed. 

HUBERT.     You  wished  to  see  me? 
CAROLINE.     [Charmingly.']     I  have  been  waiting. 
HUBERT.    For  what? 

CAROLINE.  If  you've  quite  finished  your  visit,  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  enjoy  an  hour  at  the  opera. 

[She  gives  him  her  cloak. 

HUBERT.     [Taking  the  cloak.']     No,  thank  you. 
CAROLINE.    You  wish  to  go  right  home? 
HUBERT.    For  the  present  I  have  decided  to — ah — live  at 
ihe  club. 

CAROLINE.    Very  well.    Can  I  drop  you  there? 
HUBERT.     No.     [Putting  her  cloak  on  a  chair.]     I  shall 
need  you  here. 

CAROLINE.    Oh,  then  our  meeting  was  most  fortunate. 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  471 

HUBERT.     Yes.     I  was  wondering  how  to  get  you  here. 

CAROLINE.  As  it  is  probably  the  last  time  I  shall  ever 
come,  if  there's  anything  that  you  would  like  me  to  do  for 
you  while  I  am — 

HUBERT.  [Interrupting  her,  admiringly.']  Carol 
you're  magnificent!  We'd  better  get  right  to  the  point. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]  I  needn't  detain  you  very  long. 
I've  told  Miss  Madden  and  the  others  to — ah — come  down 
stairs  in  five  minutes. 

CAROLINE.  [Acting  as  if  perplexed.]  I  wonder  what 
she  can  have  to  say  to  me;  or  [Incredulously]  do  you  want 
me  to  meet  her  again? 

HUBERT.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  obliged  to  insist  upon 
it.  I  have  already  satisfied  Mr.  Krellin. 

CAROLINE.  Dear,  dear !  That  must  have  been  fatiguing;, 
but  how  very  nice!  I  believe  he  wants  to  marry  her. 

HUBERT.    Yes. 

CAROLINE.  A  very  amusing  man.  Too  bad  I  But  how^ 
am  I  concerned? 

HUBERT.  In  the  presence  of  all  the  people  before  whom 
you  made  your  accusation  against  Miss  Madden,  I  should 
like  you  to  retract  it  and  apologize. 

CAROLINE.  [Very  graciously.]  My  dear  Hubert,  I  con 
sider  that  you've  never  had  any  fault  to  find  with  me  in  anjr 
of  your  former  affectionate  waywardnesses.  Of  course,  I 
have  regretted  them,  but  my  pride  has  never  been  involved 
till  now.  This  adventure  is  different.  You  might  at  least 
have  chosen  a  woman  of  your  class.  I  closed  my  eyes  even 
to  this,  until  the  unfortunate  woman  was  forced  upon  me 
in  a  manner  I  felt  obliged  to  resent.  I'm  very  sorry.  I 
know  so  little  of  how  these  people  act.  You  might  have  put 
me  on  my  guard.  Now  you  wish  me  to  apologize  to  her 
for  having  said  the  truth.  [She  laughs.]  Really,  Hubert^ 
don't  you  think  you  ask  too  much? 


472  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

HUBERT.  I  have  assured  them  you  would  do  so.  That 
was  the  purpose  of  my  visit. 

CAROLINE.  [Still  smiling.]  I'm  very  sorry  to  disappoint 
the  audience  and  perplex  the  impresario.  [Distinctly.] 
You  may  cut  my  salary  if  you  like,  but  I  give  no  per 
formance  this  evening.  [Rises. 

HUBERT.  [Gracefully.]  Having  heard  you  once,  the 
audience  refuses  a  substitute. 

CAROLINE.     Then  I  suggest  you  reimburse  them. 

HUBERT.     No,  that  won't  do. 

CAROLINE.     Have  you  tried? 

HUBERT*.  I  explained  that  you  came  here  with  the  best 
intentions,  and  that  you  would  fulfil  their  expectations. 

CAROLINE.  [Merrily.]  I  couldn't  keep  my  face  straight 
in  the  tragic  parts. 

HUBERT.     I  must  really  insist  that  you  be  serious. 

CAROLINE.     It's  no  use  my  trying. 

HUBERT.     [Looking  at  his  watch.]     We're  wasting  time. 

CAROLINE.  Hubert,  you're  so  good-humored,  you  almost 
make  me  feel  that  you're  in  earnest. 

HUBERT.     I  am. 

CAROLINE.    And  if  I  still  refuse? 

HUBERT.  Then  you  force  me  to  resort  to  measures  that 
we  both  decided  were  ridiculous.  I  have  waited  for  this 
moment  for  twenty-five  long  years.  For  all  that  time  you've 
held  the  whip;  I've  had  to  canter  to  your  wish.  But  now, 
my  dear,  if  you  do  not  retract  your  statement  and  protect 
Miss  Madden  absolutely,  /  shall  sue  for  a  divorce  and 
name  your — latest  as  a  co-respondent. 

CAROLINE.     [Calmly.]     You  can't. 

HUBERT.  I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Sanbury  to  allow  me 
to  assume  the  suit. 

CAROLINE.     [Slowly.]     So,  you  stand  with  her. 

HUBERT.     Precisely. 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  475 

CAROLINE.     I  compliment  you  on  your  associate. 

HUBERT.     You  left  me  no  choice. 

CAROLINE.     Well? 

HUBERT.  It's  been  your  policy  to  overlook  my  tres 
passes;  but  note  I  have  not  condoned  either  in  private  or 
in  public.  That  is  why  I  do  not  wish  to  appear  with  you  in 
our  box  to-night — that  is  why  I  left  your  house,  as  soon 
as  ever  I  discovered  the — intrigue;  and  I  shall  not  return. 
Whatever  was  lacking  in  my  evidence,  Mrs.  Sanbury  and 
others  have  supplied. 

CAROLINE.     Go  on. 

HUBERT.  I  should  like  to  settle  matters  amicably,  but 
really,  my  dear,  it's  no  longer  in  my  power.  If  I  do  not 
sue  for  the  divorce,  Mrs.  Sanbury  will;  and  she  will  name 
you  as  a  co-respondent.  That  might  be  more  annoy 
ing. 

CAROLINE.     I  have  done  nothing! 

HUBERT.  You  have  always  told  me  that  our  society  deals 
in  appearances;  and  you  have  done  sufficient  here  and 
abroad  to  create  a  prima  facie  case.  The  burden  will  rest 
upon  you  to  prove  that  we  are  wrong. 

CAROLINE.  [Snapping  her  fingers.]  That  for  your  ap 
pearances  ! 

HUBERT.  They  are  far  more  damning  than  any  you 
may  know  about  me  and  Miss  Madden.  Come,  you're  too 
much  a  thoroughbred  and  too  wise  a  woman  not  to  know 
when  you  are  beaten. 

CAROLINE.  [Leaning  -forward.}  Let  me  understand  you. 
If  I  give  Miss  Madden  a  certificate  of  virtue,  you  will  with 
hold  the  suit.  That  is  your  price,  is  it? 

HUBERT.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  yes.  I  can  make  no 
bargain  for  Mrs.  Sanbury. 

CAROLINE.  Then  what's  the  use  of  my  withdrawing  any 
thing,  if  she — ? 


THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

HUBERT.  You  will  have  me  with  you  instead  of  against 
you. 

CAROLINE.    And  what  of  that? 

HUBERT.  If  I  stand  by  and  make  no  objection  to  San- 
bury's  attentions,  who  else  can?  They  become  immediately 
innocent,  and  her  proceeding  is  discouraged;  but  if  I  join 
with  her — which  I  mean  to  do  unless  you  meet  my  terms, 
you  become  immediately  defenseless  and  every  suspicion  is 
justified.  [A  movement  from  CAROLINE.]  Without  me, 
to  whom  can  you  appeal  for  help  ?  To  Society  ?  It  would 
rend  you  and  rejoice  in  it,  as  you  have  rended  others.  You 
can  ill  afford  to  have  your  name  publicly  coupled  with  this 
young  Sanbury's  in  any  dirty  proceeding. 

CAROLINE.  [Sharply  driving  a  bargain.]  In  other 
words,  if  7  protect  Miss  Madden  from  the  truth,  you  will 
protect  me  from  a  lie. 

HUBERT.     Precisely;  and   we  all  enter  into  our  usual, 
polite  conspiracy  of  silence.     I  advise  you  to  reflect. 
CAROLINE.     [Rising.]     I  shall.     I'll  think  it  over. 

[She  sits  in  the  chair  down  left. 

HUBERT.  [With  his  watch.~\  You've  just  two  minutes  to 
decide. 

CAROLINE.  [Ominously.']  Hubert,  I  advise  you  not  to 
Humiliate  me  before  these  people. 

HUBERT.  It's  either  these  few  people  here,  or  the  grin 
ning  congregation  you  will  be  forced  to  face  alone,  in  your 
temple  of  Convention.  [Pause.']  I  know  what  this  must 
mean  to  you.  [CAROLINE  fhuddert.]  You've  been  hard 
hit  to-day.  [He  goes  toward  her.]  With  all  your  bra 
vado,  I  know  you're  covering  a  wound.  I  believe  that  you 
seriously  cared  about  this  young  man.  For  the  first  time  in 
your  life  you've  cared  about  anything  outside  of  yourself. 
That's  why  you  forgot  yourself  and  went  so  wrong.  [She 
looks  up  at  him.]  Oh!  There's  hope  in  that.  I  didn't 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  475 

think  that  it  was  in  you.  You  made  yourself  vulnerable  far 
him,  and  the  disillusionment  has  come,  and  hurt  you  far 
more  than  you  will  ever  confess.  [He  turns  away.]  And 
then  I'd  like  to  spare  you  for  another  reason.  After  aH, 
you  are  the  mother  of  my  child,  and  we've  negotiated  some 
thing  of  a  life  since  we  were  young  together.  [Pause. 
CAROLINE.  [Rising.']  Send  them  in! 

[He  goes  to  the  hall  door,  opens  it  and  makes 

a  gesture  to  them  outside. 

HUBERT.     [To  CAROLINE.]     They're  coming  now. 
CAROLINE.      [A    malicious   expression  crosses   her   face. 
It  passes.     She  turns  and  asks:]      Do  you  want  to  stay 
and  see  me  take  my  medicine? 

HUBERT.  [Bowing.]  I  know  that  you  will  do  it  grace 
fully. 

[LAWRENCE  enters  from  the  hall.  CAROLINE 
turns  immediately  toward  the  audience. 
LAWRENCE  is  very  uncomfortable  as  he 
passes  HUBERT.  LAWRENCE  is  followed 
by  KRELLIN  and  EMILY.  KRELLIN  is  un- 
easily  defiant.  EMILY  looks  down.  HILDE- 
GARDE  is  the  last  to  enter.  She  looks  un 
certainly  at  HUBERT.  CAROLINE  is  the 
only  one  who  is  completely  self-possessed. 
HILDEGARDE  closes  the  door.  The  others 
have  gathered  awkwardly  around  tie 
table,  center.  CAROLINE  stands  in  her 
position  down  left.  There  is  an  awkward 
pause.  HUBERT  turns  to  CAROLINE,  who 
shrugs  her  shoulders  gaily  and  turns 
away. 

HUBERT.  [To  all.]  Hum — As  I  explained  to  you,  my 
wife  so  much  regretted  her  unfortunate  mistake  that  she 
was  unwilling  to  allow  the  night  to  pass  before  she  came 


476  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

down  personally  to  rectify  it.  [To  KRELLIN  and  EMILY.] 
You  have  assured  me  that  her  personal  retraction  will  be 
satisfactory.  My  wife  desires  to  make  it. 

[KRELLIN.     [Taking  out  a  paper.]     Mr.  Knollys,  I  have 
drawn  up  a  paper  for  your  wife  to  sign. 
HUBERT.     But— 
CAROLINE.     Hubert! 

[She  passes  him  and  goes  to  the  table,  center. 
KRELLIN.     I  think  that  she  will  find  it  accurate. 

[KRELLIN  puts  the  paper  on  the  table,  center, 
and  takes  out  his  fountain  pen,  which  he 
lays  carefully  next  to  it.  CAROLINE  sits 
at  the  table,  takes  the  paper  and  reads 
aloud. 

CAROLINE.  "  November  twenty-ninth,  nineteen-fifteen. 
I,  Mrs.  Hubert  Knollys,  having  permitted  myself  to  make 
a  certain  disparaging,  slanderous  and  criminal  statement 
[HUBERT  would  interfere.  She  continues]  on  this  date, 
concerning  the  chastity  of  Miss  Emily  Madden, — in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Krellin,  Mrs.  Sanbury  and  Mr.  Sanbury, 
do  herewith  wish  to  recant  it  absolutely,  and  to  state  over 
my  signature  that  my  statement  was  groundless.  To  wit: 
I  said  that  Miss  Madden  was  improperly  intimate  with  my 
husband,  Mr.  Hubert  Knollys.  I  now  declare  this  state 
ment  to  be  absolutely  false,  mistaken  and  unwarranted. 
Signed " —  [She  looks  up  questioningly.]  [KRELLIN 
points  to  the  bottom  of  the  page.]  Here? 
KRELLIN.  Please. 

CAROLINE.  [While  writing.]  In  addition,  I  wish  to 
make  my  humble  apology  for  any  misinterpretation  I  may 
have  made  in  regard  to  Miss  Madden's  .  .  .  generous 
services  to  my  husband  and  to  me.  At  least  I've  learned 
that  lies  are  futile,  and  that  truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise 
again.  [She  rises.  EMILY  sinks  down  into  a  chair 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  477 

at  the  right.  The  rest  of  them  shift  in 
an  embarrassed  way.  CAROLINE  folds  the 
signed  retraction,  leans  toward  KRELLIN 
and  asks  gently: 

CAROLINE.     Is  there  anything  else?  [Pause. 

LAWRENCE.  [Coming  forward.]  Mrs.  Knollys  .  .  . 
[CAROLINE  passes  him,  disdaining  to  reply.  He  then  turns 
to  MR.  KNOLLYS.]  Considering  the  circumstances,  I  think 
it  better  that  I  resign  the  contract  for  remodeling  your 
house. 

HUBERT.  Very  well.  Then — ah  .  .  .  Caroline,  if 
you've  quite  finished  .  .  .  that  is  ... 

CAROLINE.  [Taking  her  cloak,  which  he  holds  for  her.] 
Yes.  I  told  Morgan  to  wait.  [With  a  little  shiver.]  I'm 
afraid  it's  raining.  Hubert,  will  you  please  see  if  the 
motor  is  at  the  door? 

[HUBERT  gives  her  a  swift,  suspicious  look. 
She  meets  his  returning  glance  with  an 
assuring  smile.  Pause. 

HUBERT.  Yes,  certainly.  [He  quickly  takes  his  hat  and 
coat  from  the  hatrack  at  the  door,  then  turns.]  Good  night. 
Good  night. 

KRELLIN.     [Picking  up  the  signed  paper.]     Good  night. 

[HUBERT  exits. 

[CAROLINE  sweeps  around  as  if  to  follow 
HUBERT,  but  pauses  a  second  to.  look 
mockingly  at  EMILY,  who  is  still  seated 
at  the  right,  with  bowed  head.  CARO 
LINE'S  soft  laugh  is  interrupted  by  KREL 
LIN,  who  speaks  just  as  she  has  got  to  the 
door. 

KRELLIN.  Mrs.  Knollys  .  .  .  [She  turns  in  the  door, 
with  her  hand  on  the  knob.]  You  have  signed  this  paper. 
[Triumphantly.]  But  I  wish  you  to  know  that,  for  me,  this 


478  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

was  not  in  the  least  necessary.  I  had  no  belief  whatever  in 
your  assertions.  It  was  only  because  they  distressed  Miss 
Madden  that  I  exacted  this  satisfaction. 

CAROLINE.  [Graciously.]  Quite  so  ...  Quite  so. 
It's  a  pity  that  I  cannot  go  further  and  silence  all  rumors 
about  a  little  trip  on  the  Chesapeake,  Miss  Madden  made 
with  Mr.  Knollys  on  his  yacht  .  .  .  [Looking  at  EMILY.] 
Or  any  malicious  inuendoes  about  my  husband's  too  fre 
quent  visits  at  odd  hours  to  her  apartment  in  East  Thirtieth 
Street.  [A  movement  from  KRELLIN.]  Don't  be  alarmed! 
When  rumors  of  this  kind  come  to  you,  I  want  you  to  feel 
sure  that  I  am  always  at  your  service  to  help  you  to  dis 
credit  them.  [EMILY  has  cowered  under  CAROLINE'S 
speech.  KRELLIN  starts  for  the  door  with 
an  inarticulate  cry  of  rage  and  surprise. 

CAROLINE.     [Very  graciously.']     Good  night. 

[She  closes  the  door  behind  her. 

KRELLIN.     Stop !      Wait ! ! 

[EMILY  has  quickly  risen,  and  intercepts  him. 

EMILY.     Michael !     Please ! 

KRELLIN.     But  Emmy,  this  is  worse ! ! 

EMILY.     You  can  do  nothing  more! 

KRELLIN.     This  time  I'll     .    .    .  ! 

EMILY.     No,  no!     I'm  done  for!     I've  got  to  give  you 
up  !     What  she  said  is  true ! ! 

KRELLIN.     What!? 

HlLDEGARDE.       Oh  ! 

EMILY.  I  couldn't  have  stood  it  any  longer!     I'm  glad 
the  truth  is  out ! !     .    .    .     I'm  glad    .    .    . 

[KRELLIN   makes  over  to  her,  takes  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  peers  into  her  face.  She 
sinks  under  his  gaze.     He  recoils  with  an 
almost  savage  exclamation. 
HILDEGARDE.     Stop,  Michael ! 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  479 

KRELLIN.  [Tearing  up  the  retraction.]  Women! 
Women!  [Then,  with  a  bitter  cry.]  Faith  is  a  virtue  only 
when  it  is  blind;  and  then  it  makes  a  fool  of  you  .  .  . 
a  fool! 

EMILY.  No,  Michael,  I'm  the  fool!  I  should  have 
trusted  you  ...  I  should  have  told  you  everything. 
You  would  have  understood.  But  how  can  you  forgive  me 
for  the  lie  I've  acted!  [She  goes  toward  him.]  But  don't 
.  .  .  don't  lose  your  faith  in  other  women,  because  I've 
been  a  fool  .  .  .  [She  turns  sobbing  toward  the  door.] 
Yes,  I'm  the  fool  .  .  .  I'm  the  fool  .  .  .  [She  exits. 

HILDEGARDE.     Michael,  go  with  Emily. 

KRELLIN.     [With  infinite  pity.]     So,  my  poor  little  Emmy. 

Oh,  we  primitive  males !     We  create  idols,  and  when  the 

truth   comes,   what   do   we   find?      Only  pitiful   humanity! 

[He  goes  to  the  door  and  turns  with  a  wry  smile.]     But 

you  see,  all  of  us  together,  fighting  blindly,  were  not  strong 

enough  to  fight  against  the  truth!      [He  suddenly  breaks 

out  into  an  hysterical  laugh.]      God  is  a  great  humorist! 

...     A  great  humorist!!     [He  exits  through  hall  door.] 

[As   soon   as   the   door   closes   on    KRELLIN, 

HILDEGARDE  also  breaks  out  into  a  bitter 

laugh  of  disillusionment. 

LAWRENCE.  [Frightened  at  her  laughter.]  How  can 
you  laugh? 

HILDEGARDE.  Because  I  too  have  been  a  fool !  And  when 
one's  faith  is  dead,  one  needs  a  sense  of  humor.  [Grimly.] 
So,  she  spoke  the  truth,  your  friend  Mrs.  Knollys — the 
truth  about  you  as  well. 

LAWRENCE.  Hildegarde,  if  she  told  you  that  I  had  ever 
been  unfaithful  to  you,  she  lied. 

HILDEGARDE.  Did  she  lie  when  she  said  your  nature 
couldn't  stand  poverty — that  you  couldn't  work  in  this 
environment, — that  you  had  to  court  the  rich  to  get  your 


480  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

chance  to  rise, — that  I,  with  my  principles  and  my  work 
stood  in  your  way  ?  Did  she  lie  about  your  character?  Oh, 
no,  she  showed  me  the  truth. 

LAWRENCE.  Hildegarde,  you  frighten  me !  How  can  we 
live  together  if  you  believe  such  things? 

HILDEGARDE.  Do  you  think  that  I  could  speak  like  this, 
if  I  didn't  realize  that  we  can't  live  together? 

LAWRENCE.     [Terrified.]     Hildegarde ! 

HILDEGARDE.  I  see  it  now.  It's  been  a  huge  mistake, 
our  marrying.  I've  got  to  leave  you. 

LAWRENCE.     Why — why? 

HILDEGARDE.  You  can't  live  my  way  any  more.  You've 
got  another  call.  I  won't  live  your  way.  I  try  not  to  judge; 
but  I  can't  approve  of  what  you  do. 

LAWRENCE.  Then  you  really  believe  all  that  she  said 
about  me ! 

HILDEGARDE.    How  little  you  understand ! 

LAWRENCE.     But  she  lied — she  lied ! ! 

HILDEGARDE.  I  know  she's  neither  big  enough  nor  small 
enough  to  really  give  herself;  but  there's  much  more  at 
stake  than  physical  fidelity.  She's  seduced  you  away  from 
your  self, — from  every  ideal  I  built  my  faith  in, — from 
everything  that  consecrated  us. 

LAWRENCE.     But  you're  my  wife;  aren't  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  You're  not  the  man  I  married;  and  this 
isn't  the  kind  of  life  together  that  we  contemplated. 

LAWRENCE.     [Agonized.]     But  you  love  me;  don't  you? 

HILDEGARDE.    How  far  off  that  sounds  ! 

LAWRENCE.     [Imploringly.]     What  are  you  saying!? 

HILDEGARDE.  Larrie,  you've  become  a  stranger.  Some 
thing  in  me  has  withered.  I  believe  it's  dead. 

LAWRENCE.     No — no, — will  you  listen? 

HILDEGARDE.  Oh,  don't  explain.  I've  had  my  fill  of 
that.  I'm  not  blaming  you. 


Act  III]     THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN  481 

LAWRENCE.     [Choking.']     Listen! 

HILDEGARDE.  You'll  only  end  by  asking  for  something 
that  I  cannot  give.  I  can't  help  it,  Larrie ;  but  the  truth  is, 
we  don't  need  or  want  each  other  any  longer.  - 

LAWRENCE.  But  I  want  you!  I  can't  live  without  you. 
I'd  give  up  everything  I  ever  hoped  to  get,  to  have  you 
happy  as  you  were ! 

HILDEGARDE.  We  never  used  to  think  about  happiness. 
It  just  came. 

LAWRENCE.  [With  a  cry."]  I  wish  I'd  never  met  her! 
It's  all  been  futile ! 

HILDEGARDE.  No.  It  hasn't  been.  She's  taught  us  both 
a  great  deal. 

LAWRENCE.     What's  the  good  of  that,  if  I've  lost  you? 

HILDEGARDE.  [Continuing.]  And  then  I  like  to  think 
the  factory  people  are  a  little  happier  for  our  knowing  Mr. 
Knollys. 

LAWRENCE.  [Reproachfully  and  helplessly.]  How  cruel 
you  are !  What  do  I  care  about  all  those  things  ?  It's  only 
you  Hildegarde!  [Going  to  her.]  You!  You!  [Tear 
fully.]  You're  all  I  want!  [Weeping.]  If  I  lose  you, 
what  will  become  of  me?  [Clutching  her  childishly  and 
accusingly]  I'll  just  lose  myself !  [Shaking  her]  Don't 
you  see  that  I  belong  to  you?  Don't  you  see  that!?  Don't 
punish  me  any  more.  [Hoarsely  shaken  with  sobs,  he  falls 
and  clutches  her  knees]  You  can't  treat  me  like  this!  I 
can't  stand  it!  I've  been  wrong;  but  don't  punish  me  for 
what  I  couldn't  help ! 

[LAWRENCE  has  delivered  this  last  speech  in 
a  torrent  of  choking  tears  and  with  a 
sobbing  incoherent  vehemence. 

HILDEGARDE.  Larrie — Larrie.  .  .  .  Don't  be  absurd. 
[Comforting  him]  Don't  cry,  Larrie, — you  foolish,  foolish 
boy! 


482  THE  UNCHASTENED  WOMAN     [Act  III 

LAWRENCE.     [Still  holding  her  tightly.]     And  you  won't 
leave  me? 

HILDEGARDE.     [Helplessly.]     How  can  I?     You're  such 
a  child. 

[She  takes  him  in  her  arms. 

Curtain. 


PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

A  Comedy 

By 
EDWARD  MASSEY 

EDWARD  MASSEY  was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1893. 
He  received  his  elementary  education  in  New  York  and 
Canada.  For  his  college  he  chose  Harvard,  where  he 
graduated  in  1915.  At  Harvard  he  was  especially  inter 
ested  in  the  drama,  and  associated  himself  with  "*The  47 
Workshop"  with  which  he  acted  and  for  which  he  wrote 
both  before  and  since  his  graduation. 

Plots  and  Playwrights  was  written  for  the  English  47 
course  at  Harvard  and  given  at  "  The  Workshop  "  in  1915. 
The  Washington  Square  Players  acted  it  about  a  year  later, 
in  March,  1917-  It  has  since  been  played  by  several 
"  little  "  theatres  throughout  the  country — Providence,  Cin 
cinnati,  Chicago,  Kansas  City — and  in  1918  was  revived  at 
one  of  the  large  War  Camps. 


[Copyright,  1915,  by  Edward  Massey;  copyright,  1917,  by  Little, 
Brown  and  Company] 


CHARACTERS 

(Arranged  in  order  of  their  appearance) 

CASPER  GAY 

MAGGIE 

JOSEPH  HASTINGS 

MRS.  HAMMOND 

TOM  BURCH 

MOLLY  HAMMOND 

FRANK  DEVOY 

ALICE  MERRIAM 

BESSIE  DODGE 

EDME  JACKES 

WILLIAM  LLOYD 

DICK  GRIFFITHS 

SIDNEY  GRIFFITHS 

BOB  DOUGLAS 

A  WAITER  and  Two  POLICEMEN 


PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

PROLOGUE 

[The  scene  is  the  front  of  a  house  on  West  Eleventh  Street, 
New  York  City — a  three-story  building  exactly  like  all 
the  other  houses  in  the  block.  It  is  about  nine  p.m.  so 
the  street  is  dark,  and  the  house  does  not  show  up 
distinctly.  A  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  front  door 
and  vestibule,  and  there  is  a  light  burning  in  the  hall, 
for  it  can  be  seen  through  the  glass  of  the  door.  Off 
stage  a  hurdy-gurdy  is  heard* 

CASPER  GAY  comes  unsteadily  along  the  street — a 
chubby,  self-satisfied  man.  He  wears  evening  clothes, 
a  dark  overcoat,  white  muffler,  and  a  silk  hat.  He  is 
slightly  intoxicated,  and  looks  much  worried.  He 
pauses  by  the  steps,  surveys  the  house,  comes  to  a 
decision,  and  then  mounts  the  steps.  He  rings  the 
doorbell. 

MAGGIE   opens   the   door.      She   is   an   Amazonian 
•    servant.] 

CASPER.     [Politely.]     Good  evening. 
MAGGIE.     Yes,  sir? 
CASPER.     How  do  you  do. 
MAGGIE.    What  do  you  want? 

CASPER.     Inspiration,  my  good  girl,  I'm  looking  for  an 
inspiration. 

MAGGIE.    A  what? 

CASPER.    An  inspiration — comedy,  tragedy,  romance. 

485 


486  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS      [Prologue 

MAGGIE.     Young  man,  this  is  a  respectable  house. 

[She  shuts  the  door. 

CASPER.  Dear  me,  how  very  annoying.  [Descending 
steps.]  What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do?  [He  reaches 
the  foot  of  the  steps  and  lands  in  the  arms  of  a  young  man 
— JOSEPH  HASTINGS.]  My  dear  sir,  can  you  give  me  an 
inspiration? 

HASTINGS.  [Amused.]  I'm  afraid  not.  [Tries  to  pass.] 
Will  you  excuse  me? 

CASPER.    Oh,  you  must  help  me.    I'm  in  great  trouble. 

HASTINGS.     Trouble  ? 

CASPER.  But  it's  no  use,  you  wouldn't  understand.  No 
body  can  appreciate  the  troubles  of  an  ausher. 

HASTINGS.    Why,  are  yo.u  an  author  ? 

CASPER.  Am  I  an  ausher?  My  dear  fellow,  I  wrote 
"'Sinfully  Rich." 

HASTINGS.  Good  Heavens !  You're  not  Casper  Gay,  the 
Casper  Gay? 

CASPER.     That's  me. 

HASTINGS.  Are  you  the  dollar  dramatist,  the  great  Broad 
way  playwright? 

CASPER.    Yes,  indeed. 

HASTINGS.  Well,  this  is  most  interesting.  Whatever 
brings  you  to  this  part  of  West  Eleventh  Street? 

CASPER.     Do  you  write  plays? 

HASTINGS.     No — short  stories. 

CASPER.  Then  it's  all  right.  I  can  talk  to  you.  What's 
your  name? 

HASTINGS.    Hastings,  Joseph  Hastings. 

CASPER.  Mr.  Hastings,  I'm  walking  the  streets  in  sheer 
desperation. 

HASTINGS.    What's  the  matter? 

CASPER.  A  manager  'phoned  me  he  must  have  a  play. 
And  I — Casper  Gay — must  write  it — in  just  one  month. 


Prologue]      PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  487 

HASTINGS.     Well? 

CASPER.     I  can't  get  started. 

HASTINGS.     What ! 

CASPER.  I've  got  nothing  to  write  about.  I  need  some 
material  to  start  with. 

HASTINGS.  You  don't  have  to  search  through  this  city  for 
material.  Look  about  you,  man,  look  about  you. 

CASPER.     [Does  so.]     Nothing. 

HASTINGS.  You're  wrong  there.  Any  street  in  this  city 
can  serve  you.  What's  more,  take  this  particular  street, 
and  any  house  in  the  block  will  do. 

CASPER.     They're  ugly  houses. 

HASTINGS.  Maybe,  but  you'll  find  they're  chock  full  of 
material. 

CASPER.     I  don't  believe  it. 

HASTINGS.  Look  at  this  one  here.  It's  a  lodging  house, 
of  course,  like  all  the  others.  Now  I'll  bet  you  there's  a 
play  on  every  floor  of  that  house. 

CASPER.     Not  a  real  play. 

HASTINGS.     I  tell  you  there  is. 

CASPER.    Nonsense. 

HASTINGS.  But  it's  true. 

CASPER.    No,  no — you  can't  get  drama  that  way. 

HASTINGS.     Why  not? 

CASPER.  These  people  are  nobodies.  There  is  no  drama 
in  nobodies. 

HASTINGS.  You  Times  Square  dramatist !  It's  up  to  me 
to  show  you  you're  wrong. 

[He  runs  up  the  steps  and  rings  belL 

CASPER.    What's  that? 

HASTINGS.     I'm  going  to  prove  my  theory. 

[MAGGIE  appears. 

MAGGIE.    Well? 

HASTINGS.     I  want  a  room.     Can  I  get  one  here? 


488  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

MAGGIE.     Why,  yes.      [Sees   CASPER.]      Is   it   for  that 
swell,  too? 

HASTINGS.    No,  a  single  room.     It's  for  myself. 

MAGGIE.    Just  a  minute  till  I  see  the  lady  of  the  house. 

[She  goes. 

HASTINGS.    Now  you'll  have  to  admit  I'm  right. 

CASPER.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

HASTINGS.     Show  you  there's  a  drama  on  every  floor  of 
this  house. 

CASPER.    How? 

HASTINGS.     I'll  write  a  play  to  prove  it.     [CASPER  ex 
claims.]     Where  can  I  reach  you? 

CASPER.    The  Authors'  Club,  of  course. 

HASTINGS.     Good.     You'll  be  hearing  from  me  before 
long. 

CASPER.    But  you  can't  write  plays. 

HASTINGS.    Why  not? 

CASPER.     You're  a  short  story  writer. 

HASTINGS.     Is  that  so?     Just  you  wait  and  see. 

[He  enters  the  house,  and  the  stage  is  dark 
ened.     The  hurdy-gurdy  starts  playing. 
Curtain. 

The  intermission  between  the  Prologue  and  Part  I  should 
be  as  brief  as  possible. 


PART  I 

SCENE  I.    THE  FIRST  FLOOR 

[The  room  is  the  first  floor  front  of  the  house  seen  in  the 
introduction.  The  house  is  an  old  one,  and  at  one  time 
fulfilled  a  destiny  higher  in  the  social  scale.  So  there 
is  a  high  ceiling  with  a  heavily  decorated  gas  chande- 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  489 

Her  hanging  from  the  center,  and  the  wall  paper  is 
dark  and  faded.  The  furniture  is  a  combination  of 
cheap  new  chairs  and  heavy  old  pieces — all  very  hide 
ous.  The  windows  are  on  the  left,  a  door  at  back 
leads  to  the  hall,  and  there  is  another  door  right. 

Bed  and  wardrobe  at  back,  small  table  up  front  on 
the  right,  large  table  and  chairs,  center* 

When  the  curtain  rises  it  is  evening,  and  the  chande 
lier  is  lit.  The  center  table  is  covered  with  a  white 
tablecloth  and  laid  for  supper — with  two  places.  There 
is  also  a  small  vase  of  flowers.  On  the  side  table  there 
is  an  alcohol  stove,  not  yet  lighted,  and  other  prepara 
tions  for  supper. 

MRS.  HAMMOND  is  fussing  round  the  center  table. 
She  is  a  motherly  old  woman  with  white  hair.  Is 
dressed  cheaply,  but  looks  neat.  She  hums  to  herself 
as  she  fusses  away. 

There  is  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  opens  at  once,  and 
MAGGIE  appears.  She  carries  a  parcel  done  up  in 
paper.  MRS.  HAMMOND  turns  round  with  a  little  start. 

MAGGIE.     Now  what  did  you  jump  for? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  I  knew  it  wasn't  her — I  know  she 
couldn't  get  here  so  soon — I  guess  it's  'cause  I'm  all 
worked  up. 

MAGGIE.     You're  wrong  to  get  excited  like  this. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  It  ain't  often,  Maggie.  But  my  little 
girl's  been  away  for  a  long  time  now. 

MAGGIE.  [Handing  her  the  parcel.]  Here's  your  meat 
come  at  last. 

1  The  same  set  should  be  used  for  all  the  boarding-house  scenes. 
The  rooms  can  be  differentiated  by  changing  the  pictures  and  the 
furniture.  This  is  desirable  so  that  the  intermissions  between  the 
scenes  shall  be  as  brief  as  possible,  and  also  because  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  rooms  would  be  similar. 


490  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Thank  you. 

[She  crosses  to  the  side  table  and  unwraps 

the  parcel  there. 

MAGGIE.  Miss  Purcell  wants  you  to  be  careful  with  that 
alcohol  stove. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  I  won't  put  this  on  till  Molly  comes. 
I've  some  soup  to  warm  first. 

MAGGIE.  Miss  Purcell  don't  like  her  lodgers  to  use  them 
things. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  I'll  be  real  careful.  But  I  told  Miss 
Purcell  Molly  was  comin'  home  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to 
cook  supper  for  her — just  as  a  kind  of  surprise. 

MAGGIE.  I  guess  she'll  be  finding  us  quiet  here,  after 
traveling  around  with  those  show  folks. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     I  want  her  to  rest  for  a  while. 
MAGGIE.     We  had  some  actresses  stay  here  once.     They 
was  working  at  a  theater  down  on  Seventh  Avenue.     But 
Miss  Purcell  didn't  like  them— they  stayed  in  bed  all  day. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     You'll  be  sure  and  thank  her  for  me, 
Maggie. 

MAGGIE.  Oh,  Miss  Purcell  don't  mind  favorin'  you, 
ma'am.  It's  them  as  don't  pay  their  rent  that  she's  down 
on-  [d  knock  on  door,  and  TOM  BURCH  puts  his 

head  in.    He  is  a  plain  looking  fellow  of 
twenty-eight,   but  is  always  smiling  and 
good-natured.    He  wears  the  uniform  of  a 
street-car  conductor. 
TOM.     Good  evening  to  ye. 
MRS.   HAMMOND.     Come  in,  Tom  Burch,  and  how  are 


you? 


TOM.     I  thought  I'd  drop  in  on  my  way  to  work. 
MAGGIE.     Don't  be  you  bothering  her,  Mr.  Tom.     She's 
a  bit  nervous. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Oh,  Maggie! 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  491 

MAGGIE.  I'm  looking  after  you,  ma'am,  and  I  don't  want 
him  to  talk  you  to  death. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     I'm  all  right,  Maggie. 

MAGGIE.  Well,  when  you  get  tired,  you  just  call  for  me. 

[They  laugh  and  she  goes  out. 

TOM.     Why,  what's  up? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    You  see,  Molly's  coming  home  to-night. 

TOM.     You  don't  say  so.    When  does  she  get  here? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Her  train  gets  to  the  Grand  Central 
at  5.20.  What  time  is  it  now,  Tom? 

TOM.     Five  minutes  to  six. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Going  to  window.']  I  wonder  what 
could  be  keeping  her. 

TOM.  Them  trains  is  always  late.  Won't  you  be  having 
the  fine  time  now. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  It  seems  so  wonderful.  Oh,  Tom,  isn't 
your  Ma  glad  when  you  go  up  to  see  her. 

TOM.    Sometimes.     But  you  see  there's  so  many  of  us. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  It's  been  awful  hard  to  see  her  grow 
ing  up  and  growing  away  from  me.  I  often  pray  that  she 
was  little  again.  [Smiling.']  I'm  cooking  all  the  things  she 
likes,  but  I  don't  know  what  she'll  think  of  her  Ma's  cook 
ing. 

TOM.     Believe  me,  she  ain't  had  nothing  like  it. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  It'll  be  so  different  when  she's  here. 
She'll  brighten  the  place  up. 

TOM.  Well,  I've  got  to  be  getting  along  now.  I'll  look 
in  and  see  Molly  to-morrow. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Do  you  have  to  work  on  the  cars  all 
night? 

TOM.  Yes,  indeed.  It's  a  sweet  job.  They've  moved  me 
over  to  the  Banana  Line. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Banana  Line? 

TOM.    That's  what  they  call  it.    The  cars  run  in  bunches. 


492  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

[MAGGIE  opens  the  door.]     It's  all  right,  Maggie.    I'm  going 
of  my  own  accord.  [He  goes. 

MAGGIE.     [Entering."]     Now  don't  get  wrought  up,  Mis' 
Hammond,  but  I  think  she's  come. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     What! 

MAGGIE.     There's  a  taxi  just  stopped  outside. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.    A  taxi  ?    Molly  wouldn't  take  a  taxi. 
MAGGIE.     Well,  I  saw  a  young  lady  get  out.     I'm  on  my 
way  down  now. 

[She  goes. 

[MRS.  HAMMOND  trembles  with  joy,  hurries 
to  the  window,  and  looks  out.  She  ex 
claims  happily,  and  taps  on  the  glass. 
She  crosses  to  side  table,  lights  the  stove, 
and  puts  on  the  saucepan  of  soup.  Then 
she  turns  towards  the  door  trembling  so 
she  can  hardly  reach  it. 

[MOLLY  opens  the  door.  She  is  twenty-four; 
typical  in  dress  and  manner  of  the  three- 
a-day  vaudeville  actress. 

MOLLY.  [Running  to  meet  her  mother.]  Mother, 
Mother,  my  own  sweet  mother. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Tries  to  speak  but  cannot.  She  takes 
MOLLY  in  her  arms  and  hugs  her  closely.  Then  she  releases 
her.]  Oh,  I've  been  so  anxious.  Was  your  train  late? 

MOLLY.  We  were  on  time,  but  some  friends  kept  me  at 
the  station. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Take  off  your  things  and  sit  down. 
Supper'll  soon  be  ready.  Oh,  I  got  so  much  to  ask  you. 
Did  you  have  your  trunk  checked? 

MOLLY.  I  thought  I'd  better  wait  till  my  plans  were 
more  certain. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Fear  in  her  voice.]  You're  going  to 
stay  home,  aren't  you  ? 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  493 

MOLLY.  I'll  be  here  a  week,  anyway.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it,  only  wait  till  I  get  Frank. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    Frank? 

MOLLY.  I  left  him  down  in  the  hall.  [Calls.]  Oh, 
Frank,  come  on  up ! 

FRANK.     All  right.     What  will  I  do  with  the  bags? 

MOLLY.  Bring  them  up.  [To  MRS.  HAMMOND.]  Didn't 
I  ever  write  you  about  Frank? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     No. 

MOLLY.     That's  funny. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    You're  not — you're  not  engaged  to  him. 

MOLLY.  Engaged  to  that  Brooklyn  hick !  I  should  say 
not. 

[FRANK  DEVOY  appears,  carrying  a  hat  box 
and  two  suitcases,  a  long  young  man  with 
sleeky  hair  and  other  earmarks  of  the 
vaudeville  profession. 

MOLLY.  For  heaven's  sake,  put  those  things  down  and 
come  here.  [He  does  so.]  I  want  you  to  meet  my  mother. 
This  is  Mr.  Devoy. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    I  am  pleased  to  meet  you. 

FRANK.     How  d'ye  do,  Madame?     This  is  a  great  honor. 

MOLLY.     How  much  was  the  taxi? 

FRANK.    Two-fifty. 

MOLLY.     Gee,  didn't  he  soak  you! 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    You  came  in  a  taxi? 

FRANK.     We  had  to— such  a  fierce  rush,  you  know. 

MOLLY.  Frank  met  me  at  the  station.  I'm  here  to  re 
hearse  with  him. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    I  thought  you  was  going  to  stay  home. 

MOLLY.  Now  sit  down,  Mama,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it.  I  didn't  have  time  to  write.  Can  you  find  a  chair, 
Frank?  [FRANK  balance*  himself  on  one  of  the  suitcases.] 
You  got  my  telegram? 


49*  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Oh,  yes,  it  came  yesterday  evening. 
Maggie  brought  it  up  to  me. 

MOLLY.  I  expected  to  stay  home  and  rest,  but  this  chance 
came,  and  it's  too  good  to  miss,  isn't  it,  Frank? 

FRANK.    Yes'm. 

MOLLY.  You  see,  Frank's  on  Loew  time.  That's  the 
three-a-day  vaudeville,  Mama.  He  does  a  song  and  dance 
act  with  Margie  Norton — she's  Mrs.  Heely  now,  but  Devoy 
and  Norton's  what  they  call  the  team. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     You're  an  actor  too,  Mr.  Devoy? 

FRANK.     Yes'm.     Society  acts. 

MOLLY.     And  Norton  had  to  quit,  didn't  she,  Frank? 

FRANK.     Yes,  you  see  her  husband — 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     He  don't  want  her  to  act? 

FRANK.  He  don't  mind,  but  she's  going  to  have  her 
third. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Oh ! 

MOLLY.     Of  course  that  lays  her  off  for  the  season — 

FRANK.    And  she  never  warned  me. 

MOLLY.  No.  Frank  had  booked  up  a  six  month's  tour 
— and  of  course  he  didn't  want  to  give  that  up. 

FRANK.  Why  should  I?  Norton's  the  rotten  half  of 
the  team. 

MOLLY.  So  he  wrote  to  me,  and  asked  me  to  take  her 
place.  They  played  Boston  last  week,  and  I  saw  the  act. 
Now  I'm  to  rehearse  with  Frank,  and  then  I'll  be  ready 
to  step  in.  Margie'll  hold  out  this  week,  won't  she  ? 

FRANK.  She's  good  for  a  fortnight,  but  Heely  don't 
take  chances. 

MOLLY.  Isn't  it  great  for  me,  Mama.  We're  going  right 
out  to  the  Coast. 

FRANK.  It's  a  grand  little  place,  'Frisco  is;  ever  been 
there,  Mrs.  Hammond? 

MRS.    HAMMOND.      [Out   of   the   conversation   and   very 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  495 

uncomfortable.}      No,    sir,    I    ain't   gone   much   outside   of 
New  York. 

FRANK.     Well  'Frisco's  got  'em  all  beat.    We'll  take  you 
to  see  Chinatown,  Moll. 

MOLLY.     I  bet  it's  swell. 

FRANK.     And  Chicago.     Oh,  that  College  Inn! 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  go?  It's 
an  awful  long  ways. 

MOLLY.    Why,  Mama,  it's  the  chance  of  my  life. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     I  guess  you  know  best,  dear — 

[She  is  silent. 

MOLLY.  [Breaks  pause.]  Oh,  say — I  ain't  going  to 
wear  a  white  dress  in  that  last  number. 

FRANK.     Why  not — Margie  always  does. 

MOLLY.  'Cause  I've  picked  out  a  swell  gown  in 
pink. 

FRANK.    What  do  you  want  to  do?     Queer  the  act? 

MOLLY.     How  ? 

FRANK.  I  wear  a  green  suit — pink  and  green:  say,  that'll 
be  grand;  that'll  make  a  hit. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Trying  again.]  Haven't  you  got  a 
white  dress,  Molly? 

MOLLY.  [Decidedly.]  It's  all  right,  Ma.  I'll  dress  my 
half  of  the  act  in  my  own  way. 

FRANK.  Say,  who  the—  [He  breaks  off.]  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Ma'am.  [Then  in  slight  embarrassment.]  If 
we're  going  to  meet  Norton  and  Tad  at  Churchill's,  we've 
got  to  hustle. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Ain't  you  going  to  stay  to  supper  now? 
We'd  be  glad  to  have  you,  Mr.  Devoy. 

MOLLY.  Sorry,  we  can't,  Ma.  I  made  this  date  in 
Boston. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     But  it's  your  first  night  home. 

MOLLY.     We're  awful  late  now,  but  I  told  Frank  I  had 


496  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

to   come   and   see   you   first.      [Hugging   her."]      Dear   old 
Momsie.    What's  the  time,  Frank? 

FRANK.     Six-thirty.     Honest,  we  ought  to  go. 
MOLLY.     Go  out  and  hustle  up  a  taxi.     You  may  have 
to  'phone. 

FRANK.    You'd  better  come  with  me.     It'll  save  time. 
MOLLY.     All  right. 
FRANK.     Good  night,  ma,'am. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     Good  night,  sir. 

FRANK.     I'm  charmed  to  have  met  you.  [He  goes. 

MOLLY.  Good-by,  dear  old  Ma.  [Kisses  her.]  It's  so 
good  to  be  home.  I'm  sorry  I  got  to  go  out,  but  I'll  be  in 
early — not  later  than  ten  or  half-past.  Good-by. 

[She  follows  FRANK. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.    Good-bye,  my  dearest. 

[The  door  has  been  left  open.  ALICE  MER- 
RIAM  comes  upstairs  and  passes  along  the 
hall. 

MAGGIE.  [Calls  up  to  her.]  Oh,  Miss  Merriam,  Miss 
Merriam. 

ALICE.      [Leaning  over  the  balustrade.']     Yes,  Maggie? 
MAGGIE.     There's  a  letter  for  you  in  the  hall. 
ALICE.     {Waving  the  letter."]     I  got  it,  thank  you. 

[She  goes  upstairs. 

[MRS.  HAMMOND  crosses  the  room  and  shuts 
the  door.  She  goes  to  side  table,  takes 
up  a  plate,  -fills  it  with  soup  and  carries 
it  to  the  large  table.  She  sits  down,  and 
begins  her  supper.  The  hurdy-gurdy 
plays. 

Curtain. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  497 

SCENE  II.    THE  SECOND  FLOOR 

[The  second  floor  front  is  very  much  the  same  as  the  room 
below  it.  The  windows  are  at  left,  the  door  at  back 
leads  to  the  hall,  and  a  door  to  the  right  to  an  adjoin 
ing  room. 

A  dresser  and  chair  between  the  windows;  sofa  and 
wardrobe  at  back,  bed  on  the  right,  and  round  table  and 
chairs  at  center. 

ALICE  MERRIAM  enters  at  once  from  the  hall.  She 
is  reading  her  letter. 

ALICE  is  about  twenty-eight;  medium-sized,  not  very 
good  looking.  She  wears  a  neat  tailor-made  suit  and 
shirt-waist.  She  carries  a  sketch  book.  She  comes  to 
the  center  table,  lays  down  the  book,  and  then  removes 
her  coat  and  hat.  She  brings  an  alcohol  stove  from 
the  wardrobe  and  lights  it.  Then  she  returns  to  her 
letter. 

BESSIE  DODGE  enters  from  the  right.  She  is  wear 
ing  a  kimono  instead  of  a  dress.  She  has  Forty- 
Second  Street  mannerisms  and  naturally  has  acquired 
the  very  latest  style  in  doing  up  her  hair.  She  is 
twenty-five,  but  wouldn't  admit  to  it. 

BESSIE.    Who  is  he? 

ALICE.  You're  all  wrong,  Bessie.  It's  from  Morrisburg 
— from  my  father. 

BESSIE.  [Disappointed. ,]  Oh!  [She  sits  down  and 
starts  to  manicure  her  nails.']  Where  on  earth  have  you 
been  Alice?  You're  awful  late. 

ALICE.     [Looks  at  watch.]     It's  only  half-past  six. 

BESSIE.     I  suppose  you've  had  your  supper. 

ALICE.     Yes,  I  stopped  off  at  Child's. 


498  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

BESSIE.     I  knew  it.    And  I  came  straight  from  the  office. 

ALICE.     I'm  sorry.     Where's  Edme? 

BESSIE.     Not  home  yet. 

ALICE.     You  can  -wait  for  her. 

BESSIE.  Oh,  she'll  stop  off  for  her  supper  too.  You 
girls  are  bound  I'll  eat  alone. 

ALICE.     Are  you  going  out  to-night? 

BESSIE.    Yep ! 

ALICE.  You  know,  it's  disgraceful,  Bessie.  You've  been 
out  every  night  this  week. 

BESSIE.  Well,  why  not?  I'm  working  from  eight  to 
six.  If  I  had  the  easy  time  you  do — 

ALICE.     [Laughs.]     Easy  time! 

BESSIE.  Sit  down  and  draw  the  Venus  de  Milo  ad  lib 
— that's  not  work.  Now,  I'm  kept  busy  at  the  office,  and 
when  I  get  away,  it's  the  bright  lights  for  little 
Bessie. 

ALICE.    Any  one  who  comes  home  at  4  A.M.  ! 

BESSIE.  [Sarcastic.]  Oh,  did  I  disturb  you  this  morn 
ing? 

ALICE.     I  heard  you. 

BESSIE.    I  tried  to  be  quiet.    Edme  slept  like  a  rock. 

ALICE.     Where  were  you? 

BESSIE.  I  had  a  swell  time — party  of  fellows  from  Pitts 
burgh — Ella  Fisher  brought  them  round.  They  had  a  car, 
and  we  went  way  up  the  Hudson. 

ALICE.     Were  you  riding  all  night? 

BESSIE.  Oh,  no.  Went  to  the  Winter  Garden  first — 
and  Churchill's. 

ALICE.     I  don't  see  how  you're  fit  for  work. 

BESSIE.  It  never  annoys  me.  Nice  party !  One  of  them's 
coming  to  take  me  out  again,  and  I  can't  remember  his 
name. 

ALICE.     Good  gracious ! 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  499 

BESSIE.  Here's  something  for  you,  Alice.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  Chaste  Minerva? 

ALICE.    A  what? 

BESSIE.  I  knew  you  hadn't.  It's  a  new  drink — One  of 
the  fellows  mixed  it  for  me  last  night.  I  wasn't  so  crazy 
about  the  drink,  but  it's  got  a  classy  name,  hasn't  it  ? 

ALICE.     Very. 

BESSIE.  And  it  was  a  classy  party  too — they  were  regu 
lar  fellows — lots  of  money — 

ALICE.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  go  on  parties  like  that, 
Bessie.  It's  so  dreadfully  vulgar. 

BESSIE.  Now  don't  talk  like  that  to  me.  There's  some 
of  the  girls  in  our  office — "  Go  out  with  a  fellow — my 
goodness,  the  very  idea !  "  It  makes  them  shudder.  Well 
— I  ride  off  to  Shanley's  and  have  a  good  time.  They  go 
down  to  a  dairy  lunch  and  flirt  with  the  cashier  so  they 
won't  have  to  pay  their  check.  That  sort  of  thing  makes 
me  sick! 

ALICE.     You'll  never  see  it  in  my  way. 

BESSIE.  I'm  out  to  have  a  good  time.  And  voila,  qu'est 
que  c'est — 

ALICE.  [Smiles.]  You  don't  understand.  But  it's  such 
a  wild  extravagant  way  of  living — 

BESSIE.  Extravagant !  Think  of  all  the  meals  I  get  for 
nothing. 

ALICE.     I  don't  mean  that — 

BESSIE.  And  speaking  of  food.  Will  you  make  me  a 
cup  of  coffee?  I  certainly  can't  last  till  supper,  and  I 
don't  want  to  go  out  and  eat  alone. 

ALICE.     All  right,  but  suppose  Maggie  catches  us — 

BESSIE.     We  should  be  annoyed  by  Maggie. 

[ALICE  goes  to  wardrobe  and  brings  back  a 
tin  of  coffee  and  a  bag  of  sugar. 

BESSIE.      [Sitting  by  table.]     What  did  you  do  to-day? 


500  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

ALICE.     I  went  to  the  Museum. 

BESSIE.     My  goodness,  did  you  enjoy  the  antiques? 

ALICE.  Not  to-day.  I  put  all  my  time  in  on  the  Japanese 
Department.  They  have  some  gorgeous  screens  there. 

BESSIE.  Well,  I  wish  I  had  some  of  your  leisure  time. 
You  make  me  and  my  regular  hours  look  sick. 

ALICE.    I  was  sketching — 

BESSIE.  [Looking  at  sketch  book.]  Did  you  draw  these 
broken  up  gentlemen? 

ALICE.     No,  that's  class-work. 

BESSIE.  They're  kind  of  sick-looking,  aren't  they?  Ha- 
ha-ha.  What  do  you  call  this  one  ?  Ready  for  the  plunge — 

ALICE.     Oh,  goodness — 

BESSIE.  This  stuff  ought  to  make  a  hit  with  the  Morris- 
burg  Johns;  but  [Has  an  idea]  say,  Alice,  why  don't  you 
do  magazine  covers. 

ALICE.     I  wish  I  could. 

BESSIE.     There's  a  lot  of  money  in  it. 

ALICE.    I  know  there  is,  but  not  for  me — 

BESSIE.    Why  not? 

ALICE.  Because  I'm  a  failure,  Bessie,  I  can't  do  any 
thing.  I  don't  know  why  I  ever  thought  I  could  draw. 

BESSIE.    Why,  Alice! 

ALICE.  Oh,  up  in  Morrisburg,  I  was  all  right — but  down 
here. — Well,  when  I  see  what  the  others  are  doing,  and 
compare  it  with  my  work — it's  pretty  discouraging. 

BESSIE.    Why  your  drawings  are  real  good.     I  like  them. 

ALICE.  And  I  went  away  to  show  them  what  I  could 
do.  I  can't  go  back  a  failure. 

BESSIE.    Look  out,  that's  boiling.     Gee,  I'm  sorry. 

ALICE.  [Laughs.]  Thanks.  Don't  worry,  Bessie,  I'll 
peg  away  this  year,  and  see  what  comes  of  it. — Got  the 
coffee  in  your  cup? 

BESSIE.    Yes,  Ma'am. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  501 

ALICE.  Steady,  then.  [Pours  the  water  into  cup.] 
Want  some  crackers? 

BESSIE.     The  coffee'll  do.     I'm  going  out  to  supper. 

ALICE.     You  can  make  it  up  then. 

BESSIE.    I  wish  I  could,  but  to-day's  Friday. 

ALICE.     Friday? 

BESSIE.     Yes — I'll  have  to  eat  lobster. 
[MAGGIE  knocks  on  the  hall  door  and  immediately  enters. 

MAGGIE.  Is  Miss  Edmy  here?  I've  got  a  message  for 
her. 

BESSIE.     She  hasn't  come  in  yet. 

[MAGGIE'S  eyes  have  lighted  on  the  alcohol  stove. 

MAGGIE.  Now,  Miss  Merriam.  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  Miss  Purcell  don't  allow  them  stoves  in  the  house. 

ALICE.     We're  very  careful.     There! 

[She  puts  out  flame. 

MAGGIE.  You  may  be  careful  just  so  many  times,  and 
the  next  time  you'll  be  caught. 

BESSIE.    Do  you  want  us  to  cook  over  the  gas  jet? 

MAGGIE.    There  ain't  no  call  to  do  your  cooking  here. 

BESSIE.  Well,  Miss  Purcell's  got  no  kick  coming.  We 
pay  regular. 

MAGGIE.  That  may  be,  Miss,  but  we  have  to  stand  a 
great  deal  from  our  lodgers.  Miss  Purcell  don't  like  the 
hours  you  keep,  and  she  don't  like  the  way  you  say  good 
night  to  your  young  men. 

BESSIE.    You  tell  Miss  Purcell  to  mind  her  own  business. 

MAGGIE.  If  you've  any  complaints  to  make,  take  them 
to  Miss  Purcell  yourself.  But  I  should  think,  Miss  Bessie, 
that  you'd  like  to  set  a  better  example — now  that  Miss 
Edme  has  a  young  gentleman. 

[She  flounces  out. 

BESSIE.     You  know  some  day  I'll  forget  I'm  a  lady. 

ALICE.    She  should  know  her  place  better. 


502  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

BESSIE.  Well,  she  hit  me  hard,  all  right.  And  so  I 
should  set  an  example  to  Miss  Edme  [Mimicking]  now 
that  she's  got  a  young  gentleman.  She's  always  telling 
me  I'm  a  bad  example  for  the  kid. 

ALICE.     Poor  little  Edme. 

BESSIE.     Edme  with  a  fellow!     Ha-ha-ha,  that's  funny. 

ALICE.  But  Edme  doesn't  know  a  soul.  [BESSIE  sud 
denly  stops  laughing.  ALICE  looks  up.]  Does  she? 

BESSIE.  Holy  St.  Michael!  Say  Alice — Maggie's  right. 
I  bet  that  kid's  gone  and  put  one  over  on  us. 

ALICE.     Edme? 

BESSIE.  Yes,  Edme.  Of  course  she's  got  a  fellow.  That's 
what's  been  on  her  mind  for  the  last  two  weeks.  That's 
why  she's  been  moping  round  the  room. 

ALICE.     She's  been  a  little  paler  than  usual. 

BESSIE.     Love-sick,  my  dear. 

ALICE.  But  Edme  is  a  child.  Oh,  it  would  be  dreadful 
— Who  is  he?  Where  did  she  meet  him? 

BESSIE.     That's  just  what  we've  got  to  find  out. 

ALICE.     I'm  so  fond  of  Edme. 

BESSIE.  No  more  than  I  am.  I  wouldn't  see  her  in 
trouble  for  the  world. 

[EDME  enters  right.  A  pretty  little  girl  of 
seventeen.  She  carries  a  large  hat  bag, 
which  she  keeps  behind  her  back. 

EDME.     Hello,  Bessie. 

BESSIE.    When  did  you  get  in,  you  little  buzzer? 

EDME.    About  five  minutes  ago.    Good  evening,  Alice. 

ALICE.    Hello,  Edme. 

BESSIE.     What  made  you  so  late? 

EDME.     I  had  supper  before  I  came  home. 

BESSIE.     It's  way  after  seven. 

EDME.     But  I  went  shopping,  too! 

ALICE.     Shopping? 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  503 

EDME.     Wait  just  one  second. 

[She  dances  over  to' the  bureau,  produces  a 
hat  from  the  bag,  and  puts  it  on. 

ALICE.     [Quickly.]     Do  you  think  she  heard  us? 

BESSIE.     No,  not  a  word. 

[EDME  dances  back  again.     Her  hat  is  very 
fetching — but   very  extreme. 

BESSIE.     Look  at  the  hat! 

ALICE.     My  goodness ! 

EDME.     Do  you  like  it?     Do  you  think  it  suits  me? 

BESSIE.    Oh,  it's  perfectly  darling!     Where  on  earth  did 
you  get  it? 

EDME.    I  like  it,  I  think  it's  lovely.    Do  you  like  it,  Alice  ? 

ALICE.     Isn't  it  rather  too  old  for  you? 

EDME.     Oh,  no,  indeed.     You  don't  like  it. 

ALICE.     Oh,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that. 

BESSIE.     I  think  it's  adorable.     And  you're  a  darling. 

ALICE.     Where'd  you  get  it? 

EDME.     A  shop  on  Sixth  Avenue — it  was  in  the  window. 

ALICE.     Straymayer's — he's  having  a  sale. 

EDME.     That's  the  place.     It  was  only  $2.47. 

BESSIE.    $2.47.     I  don't  believe  you. 

EDME.    Yes.     They're  selling  out — 

BESSIE.     $2.47!     Why,  it  looks  like  a  regular  creation, 
doesn't  it,  Alice? 

ALICE.     Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  does — 

EDME.     [Taking  off  the  hat  and  looking  at  it.]     I  thought 
it  suited  me — just  as  soon  as  I  saw  it. 

ALICE.     We  want  to  talk  to  you. 

EDME.     [Putting  her  hat  on  the  table.]     I  can't  stay  long, 
I  may  be  going  out. 

BESSIE.     Where  are  you  going? 

EDME.     I  don't  know. 

BESSIE.     Didn't  he  tell  you? 


504  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

EDME.  I  don't  understand. 

BESSIE.  Oh,  we  know  all  about  him,  only  we  want  to 
know  his  name.  [£DME  gives  her  a  look  of  surprise.] 
Don't  look  like  that.  Maggie  told  us. 

ALICE.  We  want  to  help  you,  dear.  We're  older  than 
you  and  can  advise  you. 

EDME.     I  don't  want  advice. 

BESSIE.    Who  is  he? 

ALICE.    Please  tell  us,  dear. 

EDME.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

BESSIE.     Come  on,  tell  us  the  mutt's  name. 

EDME.     Oh,  he's  not;  he's  very  nice — 

BESSIE.     There  you  are !     These  innocents ! 

ALICE.     And  you  never  told  us — 

BESSIE.     I'm  very  much  hurt. 

[Turns  away  and  pretends  to  be  angry. 

EDME.  I'm  very  sorry,  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  would  have 
told  you,  Bessie,  only  then  everybody  would  have  known. 
I  wanted  it  to  be  a  secret.  Maggie  knew,  'cause  she  saw 
him  bring  me  home,  but  I  didn't  think  she'd  tell.  It  was 
real  mean  of  her. 

BESSIE.  Come  and  tell  us  about  him?  We  don't  know 
a  thing. 

EDME.  You  won't  tease  me? 

ALICE.     Of  course  we  won't. 

EDME.    He — well,  he's  coming  to  take  me  out  to-night. 

BESSIE.     What's  his  name? 

EDME.     Roy — Roy  Wetherton;  isn't  it  a  nice  name? 

ALICE.     Beautiful ! 

EDME.  And  he  took  me  to  the  Strand,  and  we  saw  Mary 
Pickford  in  a  lovely  picture.  Oh,  I  think  she's  a  darling — 

BESSIE.  Cut  the  movies,  and  tell  us  about  the  fellow. 
How  old  is  he? 

EDME.     [Rapturously.]     Eighteen. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  505 

ALICE.     Babes  in  the  Wood! 

BESSIE.  That's  good.  I  thought  you  might  have  fallen 
for  one  of  these  oily-haired  floorwalkers. 

EDME.     Bessie!       4 
^BESSIE.    What  does  he  do?    Does  he  work  in  your  store? 

EDME.    "Oh,  no,  his  father's  a  lawyer. 

BESSIE.    What ! 

EDME.  And  Roy's  going  to  college  next  year — that  is, 
if  he  can  pass  his  examinations. 

ALICE.     What  was  his  name? 

EDME.     Roy? 

ALICE.     Yes. 

EDME.     Roy  Wetherton. 

ALICE.  Is  his  father  the  Wetherton  of  Wetherton  and 
Bond? 

BESSIE.     Do  you  know  him,  Alice? 

ALICE.     I've  heard  of  him — a  well-known  firm. 

BESSIE.     Rich? 

ALICE.     Very.     An  only  son. 

EDME.     That's  Roy. 

ALICE.     Good  gracious,  child. 

BESSIE.  Well,  I  must  hand  it  to  you.  Where  did  you 
meet  him? 

EDME.  He  came  in  the  store  one  day  to  buy  candy,  and 
he  saw  me ;  I  wasn't  serving  sodas  then,  I  was  only  washing 
the  glasses. 

BESSIE.     Well — 

EDME.  After  that  he  came  in  every  day  and  had  a  soda, 
and  one  day  he  asked  me  for  a  glass  of  water,  and  one 
evening  he  waited  till  I  came  out,  and — and  I  let  him 
take  me  home.  [She  is  fussed. 

BESSIE.     Oh,  you  funny  kid ! 

EDME.  I  used  to  be  very  lonely,  and  you  go  out  so 
much,  and  Alice  is  always  busy.  I  wanted  to  go  out,  too. 


506  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

BESSIE.  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  tell  us?  I'd  be  real 
glad  to  hear  you'd  got  some  one  to  take  you  round,  but 
honestly,  hon',  I  don't  think  this  fellow  will  do  you  much 
good. 

EDME.  Roy  is  awfully  nice.  I  don't  know  why  you  say 
that. 

ALICE.  Let  me  talk  to  her,  Bessie.  I  think  I  can 
explain — 

BESSIE.  Better  than  I  can,  anyway.  And  I  want  to  get 
my  dress  on.  I  don't  mind  keeping  a  fellow  waiting;  still, 
when  he's  got  a  car —  [She  goes  right. 

ALICE.     Now,  dear — 

EDME.     I  don't  want  advice.  [Gets  up. 

ALICE.     I  just  want  to  talk  to  you.     Please  sit  down. 

EDME.  [Settles  herself  on  the  bed,  pouting.^  I  knew 
you'd  all  scold  if  I  told  you. 

ALICE.  You  know,  Edme,  just  as  well  as  I  do,  that  you 
shouldn't  have  spoken  to  that  boy. 

EDME.  I  couldn't  help  it.  He  asked  me  for  a  drink  of 
water. 

ALICE.    But  you  shouldn't  have  let  it  go  any  further? 

EDME.    I  liked  his  looks. 

ALICE.  My  dear,  it's  not  respectable;  you  didn't  know 
the  boy. 

EDME.     I  know  him  now. 

ALICE.     And  Roy  and  you  move  in  different  circles. 

EDME.     Roy  doesn't  mind  that. 

ALICE.  But,  my  dear,  his  parents  do.  His  father  is  a 
prominent  man — and  he  wouldn't  want  his  son  to  go  about 
with  a  shopgirl. 

EDME.    He  hasn't  told  them  about  me. 

ALICE.  And  do  you  think  it's  nice  to  go  out  with  a 
boy  you  can't  meet  on  his  own  level — who  has  to  slip  away 
from  home  every  time  he  wishes  to  see  you.  Just  now  it 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  507 

amuses  him  to  take  you  out,  and  he  will  go  to  some  trouble 
to  accomplish  it.  But  by  and  by  the  novelty  will  wear  off, 
and  what  will  you  do  then,  dearest? 

EDME.     Roy's  going  to  marry  me — as  soon  as  he's  of  age. 

ALICE.    Edme,  child,  are  you  silly  enough  to  believe  that? 

EDME.     Of  course  I  am;  why  shouldn't  I? 

ALICE.     Did  Roy  propose  to  you? 

EDME.     Yes — and  I  accepted  him. 

ALICE.     I  never  in  my  life  heard  anything  so  shocking! 
Don't  you  realize,  dear,  that  boy  can't  possibly  marry  you. 

EDME.     Well,  anyway,  I  like  to  go  out  and  have  a  good 
time. 

ALICE.     Oh,  Edme,  it's  not  nice.    You  know  it  isn't. 

EDME.     I  do  like  him. 

ALICE.     You  shouldn't  see  him  again,  Edme. 

EDME.     Oh,  Alice,  I  don't  think  it's  wrong. 

ALICE.     It  is,  dear,  it's  very  wrong. 

BESSIE.     [Calls.]     Alice,  will  you  help  me  into  this  dress, 
I'm  stuck — 

ALICE.     Just  a  minute,  Bessie.     [To  EDME.]     You  must 
decide  now,  dear;  are  you  going  to  do  what  is  right? 

EDME.    Yes — I  suppose  so. 

ALICE.     I  have  your  promise?     Really? 

EDME.     Yes. 

ALICE.      That's  my  brave  little   girl.      [Kisses  her.]      I 
knew  you'd  do  it. 

EDME.     [Disconsolately.]     It's  awfully  hard.     He  prom 
ised  to  take  me  to  Shanley's. 

BESSIE.     [Calls  again.]     Oh,  Alice. 

ALICE.    All  right,  Bessie.     [Smiling  at  EDME.]     I  thought 
I  could  depend  on  you. 

[She  goes.    Knock  on  door  and  MAGGIE  enters. 

MAGGIE.     Miss  Edme? 

EDME.     Yes,  Maggie. 


508  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

MAGGIE.     I  got  a  message  for  you. 

EDME.  Oh,  Maggie,  tell  me,  is  he  coming,  can  he  get 
away  to-night? 

MAGGIE.     That  he  can,  Miss. 

EDME.  [Jumping  up  and  down.']  Oh,  he's  coming,  he's 
coming.  I  knew  he  would — I  knew  he  could  get  away. 
Oh,  you  dear  old  Maggie.  [Hugs  her.]  I  just  love  you  to 
death.  [Suddenly  serious.']  Oh,  Maggie,  you  don't  think 
it's  wrong  to  go  out  with  him.  You  don't  think  I  ought  to 
stay  home? 

MAGGIE.    Well,  Miss  Edme,  if  I  may  make  so  bold — 

EDME.    What  is  it?     Please  tell  me. 

MAGGIE.  I  would  advise  you  to  ask  him  right  out  what 
his  intentions  may  be ;  ask  him  straight — "  Young  man,  do 
you  mean  well  by  me  ?  " 

EDME.     Oh,  Maggie,  he  does ! 

MAGGIE.     Ask  him,  Miss;  pin  him  down  to  it.     Young 
men  is  slippery  creatures — 
[BESSIE  enters.  She  has  put  on  her  dress  but  carries  her  hat. 

BESSIE.    Any  one  called  for  me  yet? 

MAGGIE.  No,  Miss.  [Eyeing  stove.]  And  Miss  Purcell 
says  if  you're  going  to  cook  on  them  stoves,  she'll  have  to 
ask  you  for  your  rooms. 

BESSIE.  That's  just  too  sweet  of  her.  Give  her  my  love, 
Maggie. 

[MAGGIE  glares  at  her,  tries  to  speak,  and  departs. 

BESSIE.     [Puts  hat  on  dresser."]     The  old  crow! 

EDME.     Oh,  no,  I  like  her. 

BESSIE.  Come  here,  hon';  I'm  going  out,  but  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  first.  How  do  I  look? 

EDME.     Oh,  you're  lovely,  Bessie — you  look  kissable. 

BESSIE.     I  tried  to — 

EDME.     You  really  shouldn't,  Bessie. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  509 

BESSIE.  Never  mind  about  me.  All  I  ever  do  is  drink 
a  cocktail  or  maybe  smoke  a  few  cigarettes.  And  what's 
wrong  with  that?  It  pleases  a  fellow — makes  him  think 
you  a  good  sport.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Roy.  You've 
promised  Alice  you  wouldn't  see  him  again. 

EDME.     Yes — 

[She  brings  a  cushion  from  sofa  and  sits  at 
BESSIE'S  feet. 

BESSIE.  Now  I  was  talking  to  Alice,  and  I  brought  her 
round  to  my  way  of  looking  at  it. 

EDME.     You  think  it's  all  right;  I  knew  you  would. 

BESSIE.  Roy's  a  rich  fellow,  and  he's  willing  to  spend 
his  money,  isn't  he  ? 

EDME.     [Surprised.]     Why,  yes,  of  course  he  is. 

BESSIE.  Then  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  run 
round  with  him  and  have  a  good  time.  Let  him  take  you 
to  shows  and  dinners  and  suppers — that's  all  right — but 
don't  go  any  further — don't  take  him  seriously. 

EDME.    Oh,  I  see. — But,  Bessie — 

BESSIE.     Can't  you  do  that? 

EDME.     Bessie,  I  love  him. 

BESSIE.    And  what  does  Roy  say  to  that? 

EDME.     He  wants  to  marry  me. 

BESSIE.     Oh,  I'm  so  sorry. 

EDME.     He  means  it.     I  know  he  does. 

BESSIE.  The  two  of  you  are  a  pair  of  babies.  Honey, 
dear,  I  want  you  to  believe  what  I'm  saying.  I'm  trying  to 
advise  you  like  your  own  mother  would ;  it's  all  right  to  go 
out  with  him  so  long  as  you  have  a  good  time,  but  if  you 
kid  yourself  into  lovin'  him,  then  he's  going  to  break  your 
heart. 

EDME.     But  what  will  I  do? 

BESSIE.    Alice  was  right.    You  mustn't  see  him  again. 


510  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

EDME.  What  will  he  do — what  can  I  say  to  him. — Oh, 
Bessie — I  can't — I  can't. 

BESSIE.  Now  I'll  fix  it  up  for  you.  I'll  tell  him  you've 
gone  away. 

EDME.     No,  no — don't  lie  to  him — 

BESSIE.     I  won't  lie — I'll  just  string  him  along. — You 
must  trust  me,  honey.     Because  I  love  you. 
[She  kisses  her.  Knock  on  door,  and  MAGGIE  enters,  beaming. 
MAGGIE.     The  young  gentleman's  here,  Miss  Edme. 
EDME.     [Dismally .]     All  right,  Maggie.    Thank  you. 

[MAGGIE  goes  back  to  hall. 

BESSIE.     I'll  go  down,  hon'.     Let  me  manage  it. 
EDME.     [Crying.']     I  suppose  it's  the  right  thing. 
BESSIE.    Yes,  hon'.    You'd  better  let  me  do  it. 
EDME.    All  right. 

BESSIE.  [Wipes  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  then 
feels  her  lips.]  Oh,  gee,  I've  got  to  freshen  up  first.  I 
can't  see  him  like  this. 

[She  goes  out  right.  A  man's  voice — WILLIAM 
LLOYD — calls     from     up-stairs     angrily; 
"  Maggie,  Maggie,  is  that  you?  " 
MAGGIE.     [Looking  up;  in  hall.]     Yes,  Mr.  Lloyd. 
LLOYD.      Come  right  up  stairs  this  minute;   I  want  to 
see  you. 

MAGGIE.     [Wearily.]     Yes,  Mr.  Lloyd. 

[MAGGIE  goes  up-stairs.     EDME  realizes  she 
is  alone.     She  glances  at  door  right.     It 
is  closed.     She  rushes  to  the  table,  picks 
up  her  hat  and  coat,  and  flies  out   the 
center  door.    ALICE  and  BESSIE  enter. 
BESSIE.     I'll  go  right  down,  Ed,  oh,  Ed. — Where  is  she? 
ALICE.      Bessie,   that   child!      [The  front   door   slams.] 
They're  going  out. 

BESSIE.    Well,  we  done  our  best.     [She  sits  down  in  front 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  511 

of  the  dresser  and  starts  to  put  on  her  hat.']     It's  up  to  her 
now. 

[The   curtain   falls   and   the   hurdy-gurdy   is 
heard  once  more. 

Curtain. 


SCENE  III.     THE  THIRD  FLOOR. 

[The  third  floor  front  looks  exactly  like  the  corresponding 
rooms  on  the  frst  and  second  floors.  The  furniture  is 
arranged  as  follows: — small  table  and  armchair  left; 
two  beds  at  back;  wardrobe  blocking  up  door  at  right; 
and  large  table  and  chairs  at  right. 

On  the  small  table  is  a  green-shaded  lamp — con 
nected  with  a  gas  jet  on  the  wall  between  the  windows. 
The  light  from  it  shines  full  upon  the  armchair,  while 
it  leaves  the  rest  of  the  room  in  shadow.  This  lamp  is 
lit  when  the  curtain  rises,  and  is  the  only  light  used 
during  the  scene. 

DICK  GRIFFITHS,  a  clean  looking  boy  of  seventeen, 
is  seated  in  the  armchair.  He  is  studying  intently. 

Out  in  the  hall  WILLIAM  LLOYD  and  MAGGIE  can  be 
heard  in  loud  argument.  Some  of  their  talk  can  be 
distinguished,  but  DICK  continues  to  work  and  pays 
no  attention. 

LLOYD.  Not  another  word,  Maggie.  You  had  no  busi 
ness  to  disturb  it. 

MAGGIE.     Miss  Purcell  gave  me  them  orders. 

LLOYD.     It's  outrageous! 

MAGGIE.  You  know  Miss  Purcell  don't  allow  them  stoves 
in  the  house. 


512  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

LLOYD.     I  shall  certainly  remonstrate — 
MAGGIE.      She'd  be  more   pleased  if   you'd   pay   what's 
owing  on  your  room. 

LLOYD.     That  will  do,  Maggie.     You  may  go. 
MAGGIE.      [Sarcastically.]     Thank  you,  sir. 

[There  is  quiet.    Then  comes  a  rap  on  the  door. 
DICK.     Come  right  in,  Mr.  Lloyd. 

[WILLIAM  LLOYD  enters.     He  is  about  fifty- 
five — the  remains  of  a  once  vigorous  and 
intelligent    man — but    evidently    he    has 
broken  down  through  dissipation.    He  has 
not  yet  lost  all  his  dignity,  and  carries 
himself  well.    But  his  clothes  are  shabby. 
In  one  hand  he  holds  an  alcohol  lamp. 
LLOYD.     That  woman  can  be  most  annoying — 
DICK.     What  was  wrong,  sir? 

LLOYD.     It  is  very  ridiculous.     You  see  this  lamp — well, 

while  I  was  out  to-day,  Maggie  emptied  the  alcohol  out  of  it. 

DICK.     [Laughing.]     Oh,  they're  death  on  alcohol  stoves. 

LLOYD.     It  is  a  trifle,  but  it  led  me  to  argue  with  her, 

and  to  argue  with  Maggie  is  a  great  mistake.     She  has  me 

at  a  disadvantage.    Dick,  my  boy,  may  you  never  be  lacking 

in  ready  money.     I  little  dreamed — but  then,  things  did 

not  go  as  I  expected,  and  now  I  am  at  the  mercy  of  la  belle 

dame  sans  merci. 

DICK.     Maggie  means  all  right. 

LLOYD.     I  know,  but  it's  downright  insulting  to  empty 
the  thing  behind  my  back.    Let  it  rest,  however ;  the  incident 
is  closed.     [He  puts  the  lamp  down  on  large  table.]     What 
are  you  working  on  to-night,  my  boy? 
DICK.     It's  some  Greek  reading. 
LLOYD.     For  your  school? 
DICK.     Yes,  sir. 
LLOYD.    Let  me  see.     [Takes  the  book.]     Ah,  Xenophon. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  513 

I  don't  think  I  could  read  him  now.     Do  you  find  it  hard? 

DICK.  Not  this  part.  It's  all  marchings,  and  the  words 
are  easy. 

LLOYD.     What  other  readings  have  you  done?     Homer? 

DICK.  Oh,  I  won't  get  beyond  Xenophon  this  year,  but 
if  I  go  to  college — 

LLOYD.     Is  it  decided?    Will  your  brother  let  you  go? 

DICK.     I  don't  know.    Sid's  pretty  set  against  it. 

LLOYD.  That's  a  pity — it  would  be  a  shame  to  let  a 
chance  like  that  go  by. 

DICK.  Mr.  Harvey's  held  the  scholarship  for  me,  but  if 
I  don't  take  it  now,  he'll  have  to  give  it  to  some  one  else. 

LLOYD.     Your  brother  should  go  to  see  him. 

DICK.  I  wish  he  would.  Mr.  Harvey  wrote  and  asked 
him  to  call. 

LLOYD.    Why,  what  objections  can  your  brother  have? 

DICK.     He  wants  me  to  go  in  the  hat  shop  with  him — 

LLOYD.     But  you  wouldn't  like  that,  would  you? 

DICK.  I  couldn't  bear  it,  sir.  I  worked  there  last  sum 
mer,  and  it  was  bad  enough  then,  when  I  knew  I  had  this 
year  at  school  to  look  forward  to. 

LLOYD.    You  want  to  learn  something  more — 

DICK.     Oh,  yes,  indeed ;  there's  so  much  I  want  to  know. 

LLOYD.    Haven't  you  talked  to  your  brother  ? 

DICK.    He  doesn't  understand. 

LLOYD.     You  should  make  him — 

DICK.  There  isn't  any  one  here  who  understands  why 
I  want  to  go  to  college, — that  is,  except  you,  sir. 

LLOYD.  See  here,  if  I  drop  in  later  on,  will  you  do  me 
a  favor? 

DICK.     What's  that,  sir? 

LLOYD.  Let  me  read  the  Anabasis  with  you.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  it  feels  like  to  work  at  it  again. 

DICK.     Oh,  sir,  I'd  love  to.     Do  you  really  want  to? 


514  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

LLOYD.     Of  course  I  do.     Well,  I'm  off  now. 

DICK.     And  you'll  be  back? 

LLOYD.  Very  shortly;  I  generally  go  out  for  a  drop  of 
— well — spirits  about  this  time.  It's  medicine  to  an  old 
man  like  me.  But  I'll  be  back. 

DICK.  That'll  be  fine;  it'll  be  great  to  have  some  one  to 
work  with. 

LLOYD.  By  the  way,  you  don't  happen  to  have  a  quarter, 
do  you,  I'm  quite  out  of  change. 

DICK.  Yes,  sir,  I  think  I  have.  [Producing  money.'] 
Yes.  Is  that — is  that  enough,  sir?  [Gives  him  coin. 

LLOYD.  Quite,  thank  you.  Sorry  to  have  to  trouble  you. 
Well,  see  you  later. 

DICK.     Good  evening,  sir. 

[LLOYD  goes.  DICK  settles  back  to  his  work. 
His  face  is  radiant.  After  a  moment  SID 
enters,  he  is  twenty-seven,  much  coarser- 
looking  than  his  brother. 

SID.     What  did  Old  Man  Lloyd  want? 

DICK.    Nothing.    He  was  talking  to  me. 

SID.  Met  him  on  the  stairs.  Going  to  get  tanked  up,  I 
guess.  What  are  you  doing? 

DICK.     Working. 

SID.     Why  don't  you  give  it  a  rest?     , 

DICK.     It's  for  school — on  Monday. 

SID.     Well,  go  ahead.     I  won't  bother  you. 

[He  takes  off  his  coat. 

DICK.     Did  you  see  Mr.  Harvey? 

SID.    No. 

DICK.    He  wrote  you. 

SID.     I  got  the  letter.     He  asked  me  to  call  and  see  him. 

DICK.    Won't  you  go? 

SID.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  your  school-teacher.  What 
good  will  it  do  you  to  go  to  college? 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  515 

DICK.  I  want  to  learn  something.  I  don't  know  any 
thing  now. 

SID.  That's  your  fault.  You've  had  all  the  education  you 
need.  I  didn't  even  go  through  High  School,  and  I  get 
along  all  right.  I  don't  know  what  put  this  nonsense  into 
your  head. 

DICK.     I  didn't  think  of  it  till  I  got  the  scholarship. 
SID.     Two  hundred  dollars  won't  see  you  far. 
DICK.     But  I'll  work  in  the  summer — and  there's  Dad's 
money — 

SID.     You  can't  touch  that  till  you're  twenty-one. 
DICK.     You  can  advance  some. 

SID.  Well,  I  won't.  Dad  didn't  leave  his  money  for  you 
to  throw  away  on  a  college  education.  It's  all  very  well  for 
a  lot  of  rich  fellows,  who  haven't  anything  better  to  do  with 
their  time  or  money,  but  you've  had  all  the  education  I  can 
afford  to  give  you. 

DICK.     I  wish  you'd  be  reasonable. 

SID.  That's  just  what  I  am.  So  I'm  going  to  put  you 
in  the  hat  shop,  and  keep  you  there  as  long  as  I've  got 
control  over  you. 

DICK.     Don't  do  that,  Sid. 

SID.  Why  not?  They  liked  you  last  summer,  and  they 
want  you  back. 

DICK.    But  I  hate  the  work — you  never  get  anywhere. 
SID.     If  it's  good  enough  for  me,  it's  good  enough  for 
you. 

DICK.  Sid,  all  I  want  you  to  do  now  is  to  go  round  to  see 
Mr.  Harvey. 

SID.     Where's  the  good?     I've  made  up  my  mind. 
DICK.     He  can  tell  you  things  so  much  better  than  I  can. 
SID.     It'll  be  a  waste  of  time. 

DICK.  You  might  do  that  for  me,  Sid.  It's  not  asking 
much  of  you. 


516  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

SID.  Oh,  I  suppose  I've  got  to  go,  or  you'll  never  be 
quiet.  Where's  my  coat? 

DICK.    Gee,  that's  great  of  you.    You're  awful  good,  Sid. 

SID.     I'm  not  as  stubborn  as  you  are. 

DICK.     Here's  your  coat. 

SID.     Well,  aren't  you  going  to  give  me  the  address? 

[Knock  on  door. 

SID.    Come  in. 

[Bos  DOUGLAS  enters — about  thirty — short 
and  fat  with  a  chubby  moon  face.  Sporty 
clothes.  He  carries  a  package. 

BOB.     Greetings,  friends.     Surprised  you,  eh? 

SID.     [Shaking  hands.]   Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you. 

BOB.     Thought  I'd  drop  in  and  spend  the  evening. 

SID.     Fine.    But  where's  your  wife,  Bob? 

BOB.    Hush,  I  have  no  wife. 

SID.    What! 

BOB.  Well,  I  haven't  got  one  to-night,  I'm  taking  the 
evening  off. 

SID.     Where's  Jane? 

BOB.  Paterson.  Her  mother's  sick  again,  and  Jane's 
gone  to  nurse  her  over  the  week-end. 

SID.     That's  hard  lines. 

BOB.  Hard  lines!  I've  been  married  two  years,  and 
luck's  been  against  me  till  now.  Boy,  it's  three  months  since 
I've  had  a  decent  drink. 

SID.  Sit  right  down  and  make  yourself  comfortable. 
I'll  go  round  the  corner — it  won't  take  a  second. 

BOB.  Nay,  nay;  I  brought  the  party  along  with  me.  I 
wasn't  taking  chances.  Behold!  [He  unwraps  parcel  and 
produces  two  quart  bottles  of  whisky.]  Oh,  you  beauty ! 

[He  kisses  one. 

SID.     [Laughing.]     You  don't  lose  any  time ! 

BOB.     I'm  making  it  up,  boy,  making  it  up.     You  know 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  517 

Jane  may  look  like  a  drooping  lily,  but  she'd  do  credit 

to  any  police  force. 

.    SID.     When  did  she  go? 

BOB.     To-night.     I  saw  her  to  the  ferry  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  then  I  bought  these  and  came  hither.    Am  I  welcome  ? 

SID.    You  sure  are. 

BOB.     All  right.     Let's  to  business.     You'll  find  me  out 
of  practice.     How  are  you? 

SID.    Fit  as  ever — only  I've  got  to  go  to  work  to-morrow. 

BOB.  So've  I — but  Saturday — short  and  easy.  Got  any 
glasses  ? 

SID.  Surely — Dick,  where  are  the  glasses?  My  kid 
brother.  You  know  Bob  Douglas,  Dick? 

DICK.     How  do  you  do? 

BOB.     I  think  I  met  you  before.     Is  this  the  student? 

SID.     Yep. 

BOB.     [Pointing  to  book.]     What  are  you  reading,  son? 

DICK.     Greek. 

BOB.    That  let's  me  out.    I  never  was  any  hand  at  learn 
ing.  [He  takes  out  a  pocket  corkscrew  and  com 
mences  to  open  a  bottle. 

SID.    Get  the  glasses,  Dick. 

[DicK  goes  to  the  wardrobe  and  brings  two 
small  glasses  to  the  table. 

BOB.     I  wish  I  could  have  learnt  in  my  time. 

SID.  I  was  put  to  work  when  I  was  twelve  and  it  did  me 
no  harm.  Now  the  young  gentleman  here  wants  to  go  to 
college. 

BOB.    What! 

SID.     Get  a  prize  or  something. 

DICK.     A  scholarship. 

BOB.  Good  for  you,  kid.  [Filling  the  glasses.]  You 
take  it  straight. 

SID.     Sure. 


518  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

BOB.     When? 

SID.    Fill  it  up. 

BOB.  That's  the  right  spirit — I  like  to  see  that.  [Fills 
his  own  glass  up."]  Will  you  join  us,  kid? 

DICK.    No,  thank  you. 

[He  has  retired  to  the  armchair  and  is  pre 
paring  to  read  there. 

'SiD.     No.     He  don't  drink. 

BOB,     Well — Over  the  hot  sands — 

vSin,     Here's  to  you. 

[They  drink. 

BOB.    Ah,  that's  the  stuff. 

SID.     Mighty  fine. 

DICK.    Oh,  Sid. 

SID.     Well? 

DICK.  You  said  you'd  go  to  see  Mr.  Harvey?  You  could 
be  back  soon. 

SID.    -Say,  what's  wrong  with  you? 

BOB.     What's  the  matter? 

SID.     It's  this  kid  and  his  college — 

BOB.     Why  don't  you  let  him  go? 

'SiD.  He's  too  stuck  on  himself  now.  No,  sir,  he's  going 
in  the  shop. 

DICK.     I  don't  want  to  go  in  the  shop. 

SID.     It's  not  what  you  want. 

BOB.    Be  easy  on  the  kid,  Sid.    Here,  have  another  drink. 

SID.  Thanks.  [Bos  flls  up  the  glasses.]  [To  DICK.] 
And  you'd  better  keep  your  mouth  shut. 

BOB.     Come  on — Over  the  hot  sands — 

SID.  Here's  to  you.  [They  drink.~\  Where'd  you  pick 
up  that? 

BOB.  Down  at  Coney  last  summer — a  dame  taught  it  to 
me — left  Jane  sitting  on  the  beach — and  fell  in  with  the 
^cutest  little  skirt.  Nita — some  name,  eh?  Nita  Delorme. 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Gave  me  her  telephone  number.  Guess  I'll  call  her  up 
to-morrow. 

SID.    Jane  may  come  home. 

BOB.  Say,  don't  even  suggest  it.  How's  your  kid  brother 
with  the  skirts.  These  quiet  fellows  are  always  devils  with 
the  women. 

SID.     Not  Dick.     He  does  nothing  but  study. 

BOB.  Hand  over  your  glass.  [He  fits  the  two  glasses 
up.]  You  know — even  if  I'm  not  in  condition — I  can  drink 
you  under. 

SID.     You'll  have  to  travel  far. 

BOB.  Oh,  you  think  us  fat  fellows  can't  stand  anything, 
but  I'll  show  you.  Over  the  hot  sands — 

SID.    Here's  to  you. 

BOB.  Yes,  Nita  taught  me  that — cute  Nita.  Ah,  I  was  & 
happy  man  that  day.  [He  laughs.]  Jane  sat  on  the  beach 
till  the  tide  came  in-^ 

SID.  [To  DICK.]  Put  away  that  book.  Can't  you  be 
polite?  [DicK  looks  at  him,  surprised.]  I  don't  want  you 
reading  when  there's  company.  Put  it  up,  d'you  hear  me? 

[DicK  shuts  book. 

BOB.  That's  right,  come  over  here  and  be  sociable; 
don't  you  want  a  drink? 

DICK.     No,  thank  you. 

SID.  Stubborn  as  a  mule.  Here  leave  him  be  and  fill 
up  my  glass. 

BOB.  Just  a  minute,  and  I'm  with  you.  [Finishes  his 
glass.]  There.  [Fills  the  glasses. 

SID.  He'll  stay  home  with  me- — I  want  to  keep  an  eye  on 
him. 

BOB.  Oh,  hang  it  all,  man,  if  he  wants  to  go  to  college — 
let  him  go — a  little  college  can  do  nobody  any  harm. 

SID.     No,  no,  I'll  knock  that  nonsense  out  of  him. 

BOB.     I  wish  Jane  would  go  to  college.     I'd  pay  all  her 


520  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

expenses — there  and  back.  Come  on  now,  we'll  drink  to 
Jane — lovely  Jane — and  may  she  ever  be — Over  the  hot 
sands — 

[SiD  murmurs  and  they  drink.    Knock  on  door. 

BOB.     Holy  Saints — it's  Jane ! 

SID.     [Irritably.]     No,  no.     Come  in. 

[WILLIAM  LLOYD  enters — slightly  flushed. 

LLOYD.    Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — hope  I  don't  disturb — 
[DiCK  rises  to  go  to  him,  but  BOB  gets  there  first. 

BOB.  How  d'ye  do,  sir — I'm  glad  to  meet  you;  how  d'ye 
do — I  didn't  get  the  name. 

LLOYD.     Lloyd. 

BOB.  Have  a  drink,  Mr.  Lloyd,  have  a  drink.  Open  up 
the  other  bottle,  Sid.  Insist  on  the  other  bottle  for  Mr. 
Lloyd.  Get  another  glass,  Sid — 

LLOYD.     Really,  I  shouldn't — 

BOB.  Oh,  you  must — I  insist  upon  it — so  does  Sid — we 
all  do — just  a  minute. 

[He  opens  the  second  bottle. 

SID.     [Brings  glass  to  table.]     Stick  around,  Lloyd. 

LLOYD.  Well,  I  promised  Dick — but  we  can  read  again — 
some  other  night,  eh  ? 

DICK.     [Blankly.]     Certainly,  sir. 

LLOYD.  [Turns  away  relieved.']  This  is  very — very 
nice  indeed.  Just  one,  gentlemen — I've  already  had  my 
usual  allowance. 

BOB.  Glasses,  please.  [Filling  the  glasses.]  There  you 
are,  sir.  Come  on,  Sid.  Well — [He  pauses.]  Over  the 
hot  sands — 

[They  drink,  LLOYD  saying  "  Your  health,  gentlemen." 

LLOYD.  Ah,  that's  medicine  to  me,  Mr. — eh — what  is  the 
name  ? 

BOB.    You  can  be  real  friendly  and  call  me  Bob. 

LLOYD.     Quite  so,  sir.     Why,  Dick,  you're  not  working? 


Part  I]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  521 

DICK.     [Rather  white.']     I've  laid  off  for  the  evening. 

[Throughout  the  scene  DICK  is  sitting  in  the 
armchair.  The  light  falls  on  him;  the 
others  are  in  shadow. 

LLOYD.  That's  right — You  know  "  All  work  and  no 
play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy."  [Bos  -fills  his  glass.]  Oh, 
thank  you,  sir. 

BOB.     Ready,  Sid. 

SID.      [Staring   moodily   at   floor,   looks   up.~\      Thanks. 

[BoB  fills  SID'S  glass. 

LLOYD.  Your  brother  is  so  anxious  to  go  to  college.  I 
hope  you  will  give  your  consent. 

SID.  No,  I  won't,  Dick  and  his  high-toned  notions  don't 
suit  me.  I'm  going  to  show  him  who's  head  of  this  family. 

BOB.  [Gesticulating."]  Don't  you  agree  with  me  that 
if  the  kid  wants  to  go  to  college,  let  him  go  to  college. 

LLOYD.  [Becoming  garrulous.]  The  higher  education  is 
indeed  an  accomplishment. 

BOB.     We're  all  against  you,  Sid. 

[LLOYD  and  BOB  bow  elaborately  to  SID. 

SID.     He's  not  going  to  college.     I'll  see  to  that. 

BOB.  Now,  if  I  was  real  clever,  wouldn't  you  send  me 
to  college? 

LLOYD.     And  deprive  us  of  your  company,  sir. 

[They  drink. 

BOB.  Sid,  if  you'll  send  the  kid  to  college,  I'll  let  Jane 
go  and  keep  house  for  him. 

LLOYD.  Education,  my  dear  sir,  is  a  very  great  attain 
ment.  The  lower  orders  lack  it — if  a  certain  domestic  in 
this  establishment  were  only  imbued  with  the  first  princi 
ples  of  education — I  once  made  a  speech  on  the  subject 
of  education — May  I  quote  from  it  to  you? 

BOB.  Go  ahead,  old  scout — quote  it  to  me — and  I'll 
quote  it  to  Jane. 


522  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS         [Part  I 

LLOYD.     The  Greeks  are — 

[He  continues  to  mumble. 

BOB.  Come  on,  Sid.  Another  drink.  I'm  ahead  of 
you — 

SID.     Just  a  moment. 

BOB.  Not  another.  You're  a  quitter.  We'll  drink  with 
out  you. 

LLOYD,    Hear,  hear. 

[They   drink. 

SID.  [Shouting.]  I'll  be  damned  if  he  goes.  [To  DICK.] 
Come  here,  come  here.  Do  you  hear  me?  [Dick  approaches 
— very  white.]  Now,  listen  to  me — if  I  hear  you  mention 
college  again — whether  I'm  drunk  or  sober,  I'll  beat  your 
head  off — D'ye  get  me?  [DICK  stands  wide-eyed.  SID 
swings  round.]  Now  give  me  a  drink. 

[He  fills  his  glass,  then  sits  down  and  stares 
at  the  floor.  DICK  returns  to  the  arm 
chair.  He  sits  there,  nervous  and  twitch 
ing. 

LLOYD.  Education  is  a  funny  thing — but  Greek,  ah, 
noble,  inspiring  Greek. 

[Bos  starts  to  sing  a  Broadway  Hawaiian  ditty. 
XLOYD.     I  admire  the  Greeks  and  their  customs. 

[Bos  continues  the  song. 

LLOYD.  [Commences  to  recite  the  Iliad;  after  several 
lines  he  cries:]  Shades  of  Maggie,  Shades  of  Purcell — [He 
raises  the  bottles  and  pours  whisky  over  the  alcohol  lamp.] 
Where  are  you? 

[DiCK  trembles  from  head  to  foot — the  Greek 
book  is  in  his  hands — he  takes  it  and  tears 
it  in  two.  He  stares  straight  before  him. 
At  this  moment  there  is  a  sharp  rap  on 
the  door.  BOB  stops  short  on  a  high  note, 
SID  looks  up,  LLOYD  is  silenced. 


Part  II]         PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  &SL 

MAGGIE.     [Off  stage.]     Miss  Purcell  says  you've  got  to- 
keep  quiet — You're  making  too  much  noise. 

[But  they  pay  no  attention.  And  with  an 
increasing  force,  the  hubbub  proceeds. 
At  this  point  the  curtain  falls. 

The  hurdy-gurdy  starts  in.  The  cur 
tain  rises  again,  and  it  is  once  more  the 
street  in  front  of  the  lodging  house.  BOB 
appears  on  the  steps  in  a  very  intoxicated 
condition.  He  disappears  up  the  street — - 
singing  his  Hawaiian  ditty. 

HASTINGS  follows  him  from  the  house* 
He  watches  BOB  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
sits  down  on  the  steps,  chuckles  to  him 
self,  pulls  out  a  little  notebook,  and  pro 
ceeds  to  take  notes. 

Curtain. 


PART  II 

[A  restaurant.  A  table  and  chairs  at  one  side  of  the  stage. 
(An  elderly,  stooping  waiter,  with  white  hair,  ushers 
in  JOSEPH  HASTINGS.  HASTINGS  is  wearing  a  dinner 

jacket,  etc.)] 

WAITER.     A  table,  sir? 

HASTINGS.  I'm  expecting  Mr.  Gay.  He  'phoned  you  to 
reserve  a  table. 

WAITER.  Oh,  yes,  sir.  For  Mr.  Gay,  the  playwright; 
right  here,  sir,  this  is  the  table.  Mr.  Gay  is  seldom  punc 
tual,  if  you'll  pardon  me,  sir. 

HASTINGS.     You  know  him,  then? 


524  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

WAITER.     Yes,  sir,  I  have  quite  a  theatrical  acquaintance, 
sir. 

[CASPER  GAY  enters.     He  is  in  evening  dress. 

WAITER.     Here  is  Mr.  Gay  now. 

HASTINGS.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you. 

CASPER.     How  do  you  do.    Sorry  if  I'm  late. 

HASTINGS.     You're  not. 

WAITER.     Good  evening,  sir. 

CASPER.     How  are  you.     [To  HASTINGS.]      I  thought  I 
should  never  get  here. 

[They  sit  at  table. 

WAITER.    What  will  you  have,  sir. 

CASPER.     Something  to  drink  now.     We'll  dine  later. 

WAITER.     Very  good,  sir. 

HASTINGS.    A  Manhattan  for  me. 

CASPER.     To  honor  Mr.  Hastings,  I  think  I  shall  try  a 
Chaste  Minerva. 

WAITER.     Yes,  sir.  [He  goes. 

HASTINGS.    Did  you  read  my  manuscript. 

CASPER.    Yes,  indeed.     Thank  you  so  much. 

HASTINGS.     And  what  do  you  think. 

CASPER.     [Looking  oracular.]     I  can  see  there's  a  play 
in  it. 

HASTINGS.     I  thought  I  could  convince  you.     Now  you'll 
admit  I  was  right. 

CASPER.    Oh,  I  suppose  so;  but,  my  dear  chap,  that  sort 
of  thing  won't  go  on  Broadway. 

HASTINGS.    What? 

CASPER.     It's,  it's  not  playwriting. 

HASTINGS.    Why  not? 

CASPER.     Why!     Because  no  manager  will  touch  it. 

HASTINGS.     Can  you  tell  me  what's  wrong. 

CASPER.     For  one  thing,  there's  so  little  connection  be 
tween  the  scenes. 


Part  II]        PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  525 

HASTINGS.      Why    should   there    be.      I'm    showing    you 
there's  a  play  on  every  floor  of  the  house. 

CASPER.     Oh,  you've  got  a  play  on  every  floor — and  a  lot 
of  exposition  too. 

[The  waiter  brings  the  drinks  and  serves 
them.  He  remains  an  interested  listener 
through  the  rest  of  the  scene. 

HASTINGS.     Surely  you  like  my   people.     They're   real 
enough. 

CASPER.    Yes,  they  are  interesting.    Of  course  you  intend 
to  write  another  scene  and  tie  the  whole  thing  up. 
HASTINGS.     Certainly  not,  my  play  is  finished. 
CASPER.     Oh,  you  can't  break  off  like  that.     Take  that 
second  little  tragedy.      I  want  to  know  what  happens  to 
Edme. 

HASTINGS.     That  second  play  is  a  comedy. 
CASPER.     A  comedy!     Heavens!     It's  a  good  thing  you 
let  me  read  this.     I  think  I  can  be  of  some  help  to  you. 

HASTINGS.     Thank  you,  so  much.     Have  you  anything 
else  to  suggest? 

CASPER.     Some  of  your  jokes — well — "  The  cars  run  in 
bunches  " — that's  pretty  bad. 

HASTINGS.    Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  is. 

CASPER.    Now  I'm  interested  in  your  play,  or  rather  your 
episodes  from  life.     I  can  see  possibilities  in  them. 
HASTINGS.    So. 

CASPER.     I  could  take  your  material  and  write  it  up — 
write  it  up  so  it  would  go  in  any  New  York  theater. 
HASTINGS.     The  great  American  drama? 
CASPER.     I  can  turn  it  into  a  big  Broadway  success. 
HASTINGS.    That  sounds  interesting.     How  would  you  go 
about  it? 

CASPER.    To  begin  with — look  at  Miss  Purcell.    For  three 
acts  you've  talked  about  a  character  who  doesn't  appear 


526  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

on  the  stage.     Why  not  make  your  old  Mother  the  land 
lady? 

HASTINGS.     All  right. 

CASPER.     Now  your  play  is  laid  on  West  Eleventh  Street 
— a  New  York  play — therefore  somebody  is  wanted  by  the 
police.     Who  will  it  be?     Dick.     No,  he's  the  juvenile. 
HASTINGS.    Frank? 

CASPER.  No,  indeed;  Frank's  a  villain's  name.  I  have 
it— Sid  Griffiths.  Sid  is  wanted  by  the  police.  What  crime 
has  he  committed?  Murder.  That's  too  brutal.  Bobbery, 
that's  it. 

HASTINGS.     Good. 

CASPER.     And  the  police  suspect  him.     But  they  need 

some   proof.      Who   will  they   turn   to?      His    sweetheart? 

They  won't  learn  much  from  her.     His  old  pal — of  course. 

There  we  have  our  starting  point.     There's  where  our  play 

begins.  [The  stage  is  darkened,  and  the  restaurant 

scene   gives   place    to   the    lodging   house 

much  as  it  appeared  in  the  other  scenes, 

with  the  door  to  hall  at  back,  a  door  at 

right  and  windows  at  left.     But  the  room 

is  now  a  drab  sort  of  sitting  room,  and 

electricity    has    replaced   gas.      There    is 

remarkable   atmosphere   about   it.       Gold 

framed  enlargements  will  give  exactly  the 

right  effect. 

FRANK  DEVOY  is  pacing  up  and  down 
before  the  windows.  He  is  obviously  ex 
pecting  somebody.  The  hall  door  opens, 
and  TOM  BURCH  enters.  He  now  wears 
the  uniform  of  a  police  inspector.  FRANK 
turns  eagerly,  and  starts  back. 

TOM.     Evening,  Frank.     Didn't  expect  me,  did  you? 
FRANK.     No,  not  exactly. 


Part  II]        PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  527 

TOM.     I  thought  I'd  drop  in,  and  pay  you  a  visit. 
FRANK.     Won't  some  other  time  do?     I'm  going  out  now. 

[He  starts  to  go. 

TOM.     [Blocking  the  way.}     Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry. 
FRANK.     What's  your  game  ?    You  got  nothing  on  me. 
TOM.     Look  here,  Frank,  what  do  you  know  about  this 
Lloyd  necklace  ? 
FRANK.     Nothing. 

TOM.    You  can't  bluff  me.    You  know  who  did  the  job. 
FRANK.     No,  I  don't.     Honest  to  God. 
TOM.     Now  listen  to  me.     I  want  the  name  of  the  man 
who  glommed  the  Lloyd  mansion  last  night.     I'll  give  you 
half  an  hour  to  get  it  to  me. 

FRANK.     Say,  what  do  you  think  I  am? 
TOM.     Now  don't  forget  I  got  two  or  three  little  things 
against  you — enough  to  send  you  up  the  river  for  four  or 
five  years. 

FRANK.     But  see  here — even  if  I  do  find  out  who  it  is  I 
can't  go  to  headquarters. 

TOM.     You  can  find  me  in  the  square — and  I  won't  wait 
more  than  half  an  hour,  remember  that. 

[He  goes.  FRANK  mutters  an  oath.  He  starts 
to  light  a  cigarette  -with  trembling  fingers, 
throws  it  away.  EDME  enters. 

EDME.      [Running   to  him.]      Frank!      [He  pushes   her 
away.]     What's  the  matter?     I'm  sorry  if  I  was  late. 
FRANK.     It's  not  that.     I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  scrape. 
EDME.     What  is  it?     Oh,  tell  me,  dear. 
FRANK.     Naw,  you  wouldn't  understand. 
EDME.     Oh,  Frank,  you  should  tell  me.     If  you  love  me 
as  much  as  you  say  you  do,  then  you  ought  to  trust  me. 

FRANK.     I  can't  tell  you  now.     I've  got  to  clear  out  of 
this. 

EDME.    What  do  vou  mean? 


528  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

FRANK.     I'm  going  West. 

EDME.    But,  Frank,  you  aren't  going  to  leave  me? 

FRANK.     I  got  to — unless  you  come  with  me. 

EDME.     Oh,  I  couldn't. 

FRANK.    Why  not? 

EDME.     It  wouldn't  be  right.    We're  not  married. 

FRANK.      That  don't  matter.      We   can   get  married   as 
soon  as  we  reach  Chicago. 

EDME.     But  it  isn't  right — even  then — 

FRANK.     You  see  you  don't  trust  me. 

EDME.     Oh,  I  do,  Frank. 

FRANK.     You're  going  to  let  me  go  away  alone. 

EDME.     Oh,  no. 

FRANK.     And  maybe  you'll  never  see  me  again.     How'd 
you  like  that? 

EDME.     It  would  be  terrible.     I  couldn't  stand  it. 

FRANK.    Then  you'll  come  ? 

EDME.     Yes,  yes,  I'll  come — of  course  I  will. 

FRANK.      That's   much  better.      Can   you   get   ready   in 
fifteen  minutes?     I'll  have  to  go  out  and  get  the  tickets. 

EDME.     Yes,  yes. 

FRANK.     If  you're  going  to  back  out,  now's  the  time  to 
doit. 

EDME.     I'm  not,  Frank. 

FRANK.    Good. 

[He  kisses  her  quickly  and  starts  to  door. 
DICK  GRIFFITHS  enters  right.  FRANK 
turns  back. 

FRANK.    Where  will  I  meet  you? 

EDME.     I'll  wait  for  you  here. 

FRANK.    All  right.     We  got  to  get  away  to-night. 

[He  goes. 

EDME.     [Sees  DICK.]     Oh,  Dick,  were  you  in  your  room? 

DICK.    Yes,  I've  been  reading  Xenophon. 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  529 

EDME.     Did  you — could  you  hear  us  talking? 

DICK.  No,  you  can't  hear  a  thing  in  there.  [He  comes 
over  to  her.']  Edme,  it's  none  of  my  business,  I  know,  but 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  round  with  him — with  Frank  so 
much. 

EDME.    Why  not? 

DICK.  I  don't  think  he's  quite  your  sort. — I  don't  think 
he's  good  enough  for  you. 

EDME.  Oh,  Dick,  he's  much  too  good.  If  you  knew  him, 
you  wouldn't  say  that. 

DICK.     I  don't  know — 

EDME.  And  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Dick,  that  we're 
going  to  be  married. 

DICK.    Oh,  no ! 

EDME.     Yes,  isn't  that  wonderful? 

DICK.  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  now,  I  didn't  know  things  were 
like  that.  [He  takes  her  hand.]  I  hope  you'll  be  very 
happy. 

EDME.     Thank  you,  Dick. 

DICK.  Gee,  but  he's  a  lucky  fellow.  You  tell  him  that 
from  me. 

[BESSIE  enters. 

BESSIE.  Hello,  kiddies.  [To  DICK.]  Where's  your 
brother  ? 

DICK.     I  haven't  seen  him  to-day. 

BESSIE.  I'm  worried  about  him.  You  been  studying  hard 
as  ever? 

DICK.  Yes,  and  I'd  better  get  back  on  the  job,  or  I'll 
never  get  to  college. 

[He  goes  out  right. 

BESSIE.  That  boy  thinks  the  world  of  you,  dear.  You 
ought  to  be  nicer  to  him. 

EDME.  Oh,  he's  always  working,  and  he  never  goes  out 
anywhere.  I  don't  like  that. 


530  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

BESSIE.  He  may  be  a  bit  quiet — but  I  know  a  real  fellow 
when  I  see  one,  and  you  won't  find  a  better  kid  anywhere. 

EDME.     I'm  not  so  sure. 
[MRS.  HAMMOND  enters.     She  carries  a  newspaper. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Good  evening,  Miss  Dodge.  How  are 
you',,  Edme? 

EDME.     Very  well,  thank  you. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  You  look  so  pretty  to-night.  My  little 
girl  was  pretty  too.  I  must  show  you  her  picture  some  day. 
Would  you  like  to  see  it? 

EDME.    Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Hammond. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  You  remind  me  of  her  at  times.  There, 
there,  I'm  a  silly  old  woman  to  talk  about  the  past.  Run 
along,  dear.  [EDME  goes,  and  she  turns  to  BESSIE.]  I  feel 
so  sorry  for  that  little  girl  with  nobody  to  protect  her. 

BESSIE.     Poor  little  kiddie. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  And  when  we  see  so  much  wickedness 
in  the  world.  Did  you  read  to-night's  paper? 

BESSIE.     No. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  It's  simply  terrible.  No  one  is  safe. 
Some  men  broke  into  the  Lloyd  mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

BESSIE.    What ! 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Yes,  and  stole  the  famous  diamond 
necklace.  It's  worth  a  fortune,  they  say.  Here's  a  picture 
of  it.  [She  shows  her  the  paper. 

BESSIE.  [Anxiously.]  Did  they  catch  the  man?  Does 
it  say? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.    No,  but  the  police  have  a  clue. 

[A  long  whistle  is  heard  outside. 

BESSIE.     [Starts."]     Oh! 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Why,  what's  the  matter,  dear? 

BESSIE.     Nothing,  nothing  at  all.     When  did  it  happen? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Last  night,  I  believe.  Mr.  Lloyd's 
niece  from  Morrisburg  was  visiting  him.  It  was  she  who 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  531 

discovered  the  thief.  [MAGGIE  opens  the  door. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Yes,  Maggie? 
MAGGIE.     There's  a  person  to  see  Miss  Dodge. 
BESSIE.     Tell  him  to  come  up,  please. 
MAGGIE.    Yes,  miss.    And,  ma'am,  could  I  see  you  for  a 
few  minutes? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Certainly,  Maggie.     Will  you  excuse 
me,  Miss  Dodge. 
BESSIE.    Of  course. 

[MRS.  HAMMOND  and  MAGGIE  go  out.    BESSIE 
hurries  to  window.     BOB  DOUGLAS  enters 
— the  pessimistic  comedy  crook. 
BOB.    Hey,  Bess. 

BESSIE.    Good  Lord,  you  scared  me.    What  is  it  ? 
BOB.     There's  the  devil  to  pay — 
BESSIE.     For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me — 
BOB.     Sid's  outside. 
BESSIE.     I  got  his  signal.     Go  on. 
BOB.     The  police  are  after  him. 
BESSIE.     Bob,  it's  not  that  Lloyd  robbery? 
BOB.    Yes. 

BESSIE.     Oh,  my  God ! 

BOB.     [Ruefully.]     We'll  all  get  ten  years  if  he's  caught. 
BESSIE.     [Bitterly.]     What  a  fool  thing— 
BOB.    He  wants  you  to  flash  the  lights,  if  he  can  come  in. 
BESSIE.     Is  he  out  in  the  street  alone?      [Bos  nods.] 
Oh,  the  poor  kid.     [She  flashes  the  lights.]     There- 
Bos.     I  hope  he  ain't  found  there.    Sing  Sing's  too  far 
from  the  bright  lights  to  suit  me. 
BESSIE.    What  made  him  do  it,  Bob? 
BOB.    You  better  ask  him  that.    They  saw  him  get  away. 
He's  been  followed  close  ever  since — 

[The  door  is  thrown  back.     SID  GRIFFITHS 
enters,  pale,  agitated. 


532  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

SID.     They're  after  me,  Bess;  they're  after  me. 

BESSIE.  Oh,  Sid,  Sid,  why  did  you  do  it?  You  promised 
me  you'd  go  straight. 

SID.     It  looked  like  a  sure  thing. 

BESSIE.    Oh,  Sid! 

SID.  Now  listen,  girl,  I  want  you  to  get  the  straight  of 
this.  Frank  Devoy's  in  it  too.  He  gave  me  a  plan  of  the 
house — 

BESSIE.     Well? 

SID.  I  was  to  get  the  necklace  and  hand  it  over  to  him. 
He  promised  me  five  thousand.  That  was  for  us  to  start  on. 

BESSIE.     Oh,  Sid,  I'd  rather  start  honest. 

SID.     Well,  it's  done  now. 

BESSIE.     And  you  got  the  rocks,  you  got  the  rocks. 

SID.    Yes,  but  they  saw  me. 

BESSIE.    And  the  rocks,  where  are  they  ? 

SID.    I've  got  them  on  me. 

BESSIE.  Good  God.  Oh,  Sid,  it's  going  to  break  my 
heart. 

SID.  If  I  could  only  get  the  necklace  to  Frank.  They 
won't  suspect  him — 

BESSIE.    Where  is  he? 

SID.  I  was  to  meet  him  at  the  old  shack.  Here's  where 
you  come  in,  Bob. 

BOB.     I'm  ready.    What  is  it? 

SID.  Tell  Frank  to  come  over  here  at  once.  Tell  him 
if  they  find  the  necklace  here,  it'll  mean  the  big  house  for 
all  of  us. 

BOB.     I  get  yru. 

SID.     Now,  hustle. 

BOB.    I'll  take  a  jitney. 

[He  goes. 

BESSIE.  If  you  get  out  of  this,  you'll  go  straight — for 
my  sake. 


Part  II]        PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  53$ 

SID.     God  help  me — I  will. 

[He  embraces  her  passionately. 

BESSIE.  You'd  better  stay  in  your  room  till  he  comes. 
I'll  keep  watch  down-stairs  and  let  you  know. 

SID.     All  right.     Not  a  word  of  this  to  Dick,  mind. 
BESSIE.     Of  course  not. 

[She  goes.  SID  takes  out  the  necklace  and 
looks  at  it.  Then  he  puts  it  back,  crosses 
to  door  right,  and  goes  out. 

After  a  minute  the  hall  door  opens,  and 
EDME  enters  with  a  traveling  bag.  She 
is  very  nervous.  She  puts  the  bag  on  the 
table.  MRS.  HAMMOND  comes  in. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Why,  Edme,  where  are  you  going? 
EDME.     I — I — nowhere — 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  But  you've  got  your  hat  and  coat  on. 
And  your  bag  here — What  does  it  mean?  Are  you  going 
away? 

EDME.     Yes,  I  am,  Mrs.  Hammond. 
MRS.    HAMMOND.      But    where    to?       [EDME    does    not 
answer.]      Can't  you  tell  me?     Surely  it's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of. 

EDME.     I'm  going  away  with  Mr.  Devoy. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     What! 
EDME.    We're  going  out  West. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  But,  Edme — you — you  can't  go  with 
him  alone — 

EDME.  He's  going  to  marry  me  as  soon  as  we  get  to 
Chicago. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Chicago!!     Oh,  you  poor  little  girl. 
EDME.     He  promised  me  he  would.     I  wouldn't  go  till 
he'd  promised  me. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  My  dear,  you  mustn't  run  away  like 
that.  You  don't  know  what  you're  doing. 


534,  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

EDME.    Yes,  I  do.    Frank  wouldn't  deceive  me. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     You  don't  know  the  world,  dear. 
EDME.     I  wasn't  going  to  do  anything  wrong. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.    Of  course  not,  dear.    Now,  I  want  you 
to  sit  down,  and  listen  while  I  tell  you  a  story.     Please — 
it  won't  take  long.      [£DME   sits  at   her  feet.]      I   had   a 
daughter  once.     She  was  a  beautiful  little  girl,  and  I  called 
her  Molly.     Well,  Molly  grew  up,  and  she  got  restless  at 
home.     I  guess  I  was  too  quiet  for  her.     Anyway,  she  left 
me  and  went  on  the  stage.     Then  I  didn't  hear  from  her  for 
a  long  time — and  I  worried  and  one  evening — it  was  in  this 
very  room — Maggie  was  trying  to  comfort  me — 

[A  loud  whistle  is  heard  off  the  stage.  The 
lights  go  out.  They  come  on  again, 
slowly,  until  the  stage  is  in  half-light. 
MRS.  HAMMOND  is  still  sitting  by  the 
center  table.  MAGGIE  is  standing  beside 
her. 

MAGGIE.    You  do  wrong  to  get  excited  like  this. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.    I  can't  help  it,  Maggie,  I  haven't  heard 
from  Molly  in  over  a  month. 

MAGGIE.     There,  there.     It'll  be  all  right.     You're  tired 
out  with  this  worrying.     Come  and  lie  down  for  a  while. 
MRS.  HAMMOND.     [Rising.]     I  know  I'm  foolish,  but  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  something  must  have  happened. 

[ They  go  out  right.    MOLLY  enters  from  hall. 
She  is  deathly  pale.    She  staggers  to  the 
center  table.     MAGGIE  re-enters. 
MAGGIE.     Miss  Molly. 
MOLLY.     [Starting.]     Oh,  my  God! 
MAGGIE.     Glory  be,  you've  come  back  to  us. 
MOLLY.     My  mother,  where  is  she? 
MAGGIE.     Lying  down  in  there.     Wait  till  I  tell  her. 
MOLLY.     No,  no,  you  mustn't  do  that.     I'm  going  right 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  535 

away.      [She  sees  writing  materials  on  the  table.']     Wait. 
[She  scribbles  a  note.]     I  want  you  to  give  her  this. 

[She  turns  to  go. 

MAGGIE.  Oh,  wait,  Miss  Molly.  You're  in  some  trouble, 
I  can  see  that — What  is  it,  tell  me  what's  wrong? 

MOLLY.     It's  nothing — no  one  can  help  me. 

MAGGIE.     Oh,  tell  me,  honey. 

MOLLY.     No,  no. 

MAGGIE.    You  must  tell  me.    You  must  tell  your  Maggie. 

MOLLY.     Oh,  Maggie,  I'm  going  to  become — 

[She  breaks  down. 

MAGGIE.     Not  that,  honey,  not  that. 

MOLLY.     Yes,  yes. 

MAGGIE.     Oh,  Miss  Molly. 

MOLLY.  I  trusted  him.  I  thought  he'd  marry  me,  but 
he  lied  to  me,  he  tricked  me. 

MAGGIE.     My  poor  little  girl! 

MOLLY.     I  can't  face  my  mother.     It  would  kill  her. 

[MRS.  HAMMOND  calls  "  Maggie,  Maggie." 

MAGGIE.  It's  your  mother,  she's  waked  up.  You  mustn't 
go.  Wait  and  see  her,  Miss  Molly. 

MOLLY.  No,  no.  Give  her  my  letter.  It  will  explain 
everything.  Oh,  Maggie,  I  can't  see  her. 

MAGGIE.  Then,  Miss  Molly,  take  this.  [She  gives  her  a 
necklace  that  is  on  the  table.]  It's  your  mother's  necklace. 
She  got  it  when  she  was  married,  and  I  know  she'd  want 
you  to  have  it. 

MOLLY.    God  bless  you.  [She  goes. 

[MRS.  HAMMOND  enters. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Why,  Maggie,  who  were  you  talking 
to?  I  thought  I  heard  voices. 

MAGGIE.     There  wasn't  anybody. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  You  have  a  letter.  It's  for  me — it's 
from  Molly — give  it  to  me. 


536  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

MAGGIE.     No,  ma'am,  no. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  Give  it  to  me,  Maggie,  there's  some 
thing  wrong;  give  it  to  me.  [She  takes  letter. 

MAGGIE.     Don't  read  it,  ma'am. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Reads.]  "  I  have  gone  away.  You 
will  never  see  me  again."  [She  breaks  off.]  Oh,  Molly, 
my  little  girl,  my  little  girl. 

[The  whistle  sounds  again.  The  lights  go 
out.  They  come  on  again  slowly.  MRS. 
HAMMOND  is  talking  to  EDME, 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  I  never,  never  heard  of  her  again. 
And  that  was  sixteen  years  ago.  It  was  terrible,  terrible. 
I  thought  I  should  die. 

EDME.     [Crying.]     Oh,  I'm  so  sorry. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  And  you  know  how  I've  watched  over 
you,  ever  since  you  came  to  stay  here.  It  would  break  my 
heart  if  anything  should  happen  to  you. 

EDME.  Don't  cry,  Mrs.  Hammond.  I  couldn't  go  now. 
Not  after  what  you've  just  told  me. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  If  he  is  an  honorable  man,  he  will 
wait  and  marry  you  here. 

EDME.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  will.  I'm  going  up-stairs 
now  to  unpack  my  things. 

[BESSIE  enters,  followed  by  BOB. 

EDME.     [Drawing  back.]     Oh,  I  can't  talk  to  any  one. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  [Taking  her  in  her  arms.]  It's  all 
right,  dear.  You  must  excuse  us ;  this  little  girl  isn't  feeling 
very  well. 

BOB.     Poor  kid,  what's  the  matter? 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  She'll  be  all  right.  Just  leave  here  to 
me.  [She  goes  out  with  EDME. 

BOB.     Gee,  I'm  glad  they  didn't  stay.     Get  Sid. 

BESSIE.     [Going  to  door  right.]     Sid,  Sid, — come  here. 


Part  II]        PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  537 

[Sio  enters  from  right. 

SID.     Did  you  get  Frank? 

BOB.     He's  coming  right  along — but  look  here — 

SID.     Where  was  he? 

BESSIE.     Tell  him,  Bob. 

BOB.     I  passed  Frank  in  the  Square.     He  was  talking 
to  Inspector  Burch. 

SID.    My  God,  no. 

BOB.     He's  trying  to  double-cross  you. 

SID.     Where  is  he? 

BOB.     He's  here  by  now.     I  kept  just  ahead  of  him. 

BESSIE.      [At  door.']     Frank's  on  the  stairs. 

BOB.     What're  you  going  to  do? 

SID.     Leave  that  to  me.     I  don't  want  you  to  mix  up  in 
this. 

[FRANK  DEVOY  enters. 

FRANK.    Evening,  everybody.    [There  is  a  silence.']    Well, 
what's  wrong? 

SID.      [To  BESSIE.]      I  want  you  to  go  down-stairs  and 
keep  watch  by  the  front  door.     Take  Bob  with  you. 

BOB.     Oh,  say — 

SID.     Do  what  I  say.     This  is  my  affair. 

BESSIE.     Come  along,  Bob. 

BOB.    Oh,  gee,  I  wanted  to  see  the  excitement. 

[They  go. 

SID.     Now  take  these  rocks.    Quick. 

FRANK.     You  bungled  the  job,  and  you  want  me  to  take 
the  consequences. 

SID.     We  went  pals  on  this. 

FRANK.     The  jewels  are  no  good  now.     They're  marked 
everywhere. 

SID.     Well,  they're  after  me  hard.     I've  got  to  get  rid 
of  them. 

FRANK.     Oh,  is  that  it? 


538  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

SID.  I  don't  want  your  money.  I'm  sorry  I  messed  up 
with  you  at  all.  But  take  this.  [He  hands  him  diamonds.] 

FRANK.  Oh,  I  don't  mind.  [Takes  necklace  and  lays 
it  on  table.]  As  a  favor  to  you. 

SID.  Now  look  here,  you  rat,  what  were  you  talking  to 
Inspector  Burch  about? 

FRANK.     I  wasn't,  Sid;  who  told  you  that? 

SID.     Don't  lie.     Bob  saw  you. 

FRANK.     He  stopped  me,  honest  he  did. 

SID.  I'll  have  to  let  it  go  at  that,  I  suppose.  But  I 
don't  trust  you,  and  I'm  glad  to  be  through  with  you.  And 
get  this — if  you  ever  try  to  double-cross  me,  Frank,  I'll 
kill  you. 

FRANK.     Don't  you  try  to  threaten  me. 

SID.     I  mean  what  I  say. 

FRANK.  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  [He  draws  a  revolver.] 
Now  you  keep  away,  or  I'll  shoot.  [He  points  gun  at  SID.] 

SID.  Put  that  down,  you  fool.  D'you  hear  me,  put  it 
down.  [He  walks  straight  up  to  FRANK  and  takes 

the  gun  out  of  his  hand. 

FRANK.    For  God's  sake,  don't  hurt  me.    I  didn't  mean  it. 

SID.  [Throws  gun  on  table  with  great  contempt.]  You 
dirty  coward!  Now  I'm  coming  back  in  five  minutes,  and 
I  don't  want  to  find  you  here.  [He  goes  out  right. 

FRANK.    Damn  you. 

[He  puts  necklace  in  his  pocket.    Enter  EDME. 

FRANK.    Aren't  you  ready  ?    We've  got  to  get  away  quick. 

EDME.     I'm  not  going,  Frank. 

FRANK.    What's  that? 

EDME.     It  isn't  right.     You  shouldn't  ask  me  to. 

FRANK.    Don't  be  a  fool.     I've  no  time  to  waste. 

EDME.    No,  Frank — it's  no  use. 

FRANK.     Come  along  now. 

EDME.    I  can't  I  tell  you,  I  can't. 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  539 

FRANK.     Listen  to  me,  girl,  I  love  you.     I'm  crazy  for 

you.     Do  you  think  I'll  let  you  turn  back  now.     No,  sir, 

you've  got  to  come  with  me.  [He  crosses  over  to  her.. 

EDME.     Don't  you  touch  me.     [FRANK  laughs  at  her.] 

If  you  come  near  me,  I'll  scream. 

FRANK.  We'll  soon  stop  that.  [He  catches  hold  of  her, 
and  tries  to  cover  her  mouth  with  his  hand.  EDME  breaks 
away  from  him.  He  follows  her,  and  she  switches  off  the 
lights.]  Here,  where  are  you?  [No  answer.]  Come,  on: 
you  can't  play  tricks  with  me.  Speak  up.  [No  answer.] 
Well,  we'll  soon  find  out.  [He  flashes  a  pocket  flashlight. 
It  falls  on  EDME.]  Oh,  there  you  are,  you  little  fool.  [He 
advances  toward  her.  She  screams.]  Be  quiet,  d'you  hear 
me !  [The  flashlight  falls  on  the  revolver  on  table. 

EDME  gives  a  cry  and  seizes  it. 

FRANK.  [Putting  off  flash.]  Put  that  down,  put  that 
down. 

EDME.  [Rushes  to  lights  and  switches  them  on.]  Now 
you  keep  away,  or  I'll  shoot. 

FRANK.     Cut  out  this  foolishness. 

EDME.     I  mean  it. 

FRANK.     I've  stood  enough  from  you. 

[He  starts  towards  her.    She  shoots. 
FRANK.     You  little  vixen. 

[He  falls.  EDME  screams.  The  hall  door  is 
opened.  MRS.  HAMMOND  and  MAGGIE 
enter. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.  What  has  happened?  What's  the 
matter  ? 

[BESSIE  enters. 
BESSIE.     Sid,  where  are  you,  Sid,  Sid — 

[SiD  enters  from  right.  BOB  appears  in  hall 
doorway.  DICK  follows  SID.  He  crosses 
to  EDME. 


540  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

SID.     [Examining  FRANK.]     Dead!     I've  got  to  make  a 
get-away. 

BESSIE.     Try  the  hall.     Quick! 

[Sio   goes  out   by   the   hall   door.     EDME   is 
standing  by  table,  holding  revolver. 

DICK.     Edme,  what  have  you  done?     Edme — 

EDME.     [Hysterically.]     Oh,  I've  killed  him,  I've  killed 
him ! 

MAGGIE.    What  is  it?    What  is  it? 

EDME.     I  couldn't  help  it.     I  had  to. 

MRS.  HAMMOND.     Edme ! 

EDME.     It's  true — I  swear  it's  true.     Oh,  what  shall  I 
do — I've  killed  him. 

[She  tears  at  her  collar;  it  comes  undone  and 
reevals  a  necklace  underneath. 

MAGGIE.     Oh,  my  God,  where  did  you  get  that  necklace  ? 

EDME.     I  couldn't  help  it — it  was  to  save  myself. 

MAGGIE.     That  necklace — where  did  you  get  it? 

EDME.     It  was  my  mother's — it  was  my  mother's  neck 
lace. 

MAGGIE.    Mrs.  Hammond — it's  yours — it's  the  one  I  gave 
Miss  Molly! 

MRS.   HAMMOND.     Great  heaven,  child — who  was  your 
mother? 

EDME.    I  never  knew  her.    She  died  when  I  was  born. 

MAGGIE.      It's   Miss   Molly's   child — it's   her   little  girl. 
Oh,  God  be  praised. 

MRS.    HAMMOND.      [Embracing    her.]      My    child,    my 
child,  is  this  how  I've  found  you! 

SID.     [Rushes  back.]     The  police — they're  out  front! 

BESSIE.     We'll  stand  together,  Sid,  we'll  stand  together. 
[ToM  BURCH,  WILLIAM  LLOYD — now  a  dignified  old  gentle 
man — and  two  policemen  enter. 

TOM.     Now,  then,  what's  the  row  here?      [He  sees  the 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  541 

body.]  My  God!  [To  a  policeman.']  Watch  that  door. 
[To  the  other.]  You  get  over  there.  [He  points  to  door 
right.]  Now,,  then,  who's  done  this? 

EDME.     I  have. 

TOM.     You  murdered  this  man? 

EDME.    Yes. 

TOM.     Put  the  bracelets  on  her,  Ned. 

EDME.     Oh,  no,  not  that,  not  that. 

SID.     Leave  her  be.     She  did  it  in  self-defense. 

TOM.     Oh,  there  you  are,  Sid.     Where's  Bessie  ? 

BESSIE.     Here  I  am. 

TOM.     Glad  to  see  you.     Why,  hello,  Bob.     So  you're 
here  too. 

BOB.     [Dismally.]     Hello. 

TOM.    Who's  going  to  explain? 

EDME.     I  shot  him;  I  had  to. 

TOM.     That  don't  go. 

BESSIE.     What's  wrong? 

TOM.     [Wheeling.]     Sid  Griffiths,  you  shot  Frank. 

SID.     What! 

TOM.     You  shot  him  because  he  double-crossed  you. 

SID.     It's  a  lie. 

TOM.     Where's  the  necklace? 

SID.     How  should  I  know? 

TOM.    You're  mixed  up  in  this. 

SID.     No,  sir, — not  this  time. 

TOM.    We'll  see.    Where's  the  necklace? 

BESSIE.     Most  likely  he's  got  it  himself. 

[Pointing  to  FRANK. 

TOM.    Well,  I'll  look  and  see.     [Finds  necklace.]     Good 
God !     Is  this  your  necklace,  Mr.  Lloyd  ? 

LLOYD.    Why,  yes.     Of  course  it  is. 

TOM.     Which  of  you  put  it  there? 

SID.     I  never  saw  it  before. 


542  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

BESSIE.     Nor  I. 

TOM.     It'll  be  hard  to  prove  that.     Now,  then,  you'd 
better  confess.     You  shot  him  for  revenge,  didn't  you? 

DICK.     But,  sir,  he  couldn't  have. 

TOM.    Why  not? 

DICK.     He  was  in  that  room  with  me. 

TOM.     Can  you  swear  to  that? 

DICK.    Yes,  sir.  [Sensation. 

BESSIE.    The  girl  tells  you  she  did  it. 

EDME.    I  had  to. 

TOM.     It'll  be  up  to  you  to  prove  that. 

EDME.     I  will,  I  will. 

TOM.     Then  I  guess  I  can't  hold  you  on  that  charge, 
Sid.  [General  sighs  of  relief. 

EDME.     Oh,  Dick,  can  you  ever  forgive  me? 

DICK.     Of  course  I  can. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms. 

SID.     Is  that  all  you  want? 

TOM.     Just  a  minute.     Mr.  Lloyd,  is  this  the  man  you 
saw  in  your  study? 

LLOYD.     I  can't  say,  Mr.  Inspector.     It  was  my  niece 
who  discovered  him. 

TOM.    Quite  so.    Where  can  we  reach  her? 

LLOYD.     I   sent  her  a  telegram — I  thought  you  might 
need  her.  [Enter  ALICE. 

ALICE.     Oh,  Uncle,  I  received  your  telegram.     What  is 
it?     Have  you  found  the  thief? 

TOM.      Miss   Merriam,  would  you  know  the  man  who 
broke  into  your  uncle's  house  if  you  saw  him  again? 

ALICE.    Oh,  yes,  I  saw  him  plainly. 

TOM.     Good. 

ALICE.     [Discovering  SID.]     Oh,  my  God.    There  he  is ! 
That's  the  man. 

TOM.     Aha!      Thank   you   very   much,   Miss   Merriam. 


Part  II]       PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  543 

[With  Triumph.]  Well,  I'll  hold  you  for  the  robbery,  Sid, 
and  I  guess  you'll  get  ten  years  for  it. 

BESSIE.  We  were  going  to  go  straight  if  we  got  out  of 
this— we  were  going  to  the  country.  Oh,  Mr.  Lloyd,  don't 
let  them  take  Sid — we  were  going  to  get  married. 

LLOYD.    He's  a  thief. 

BESSIE.  It  was  that  man  [Points  to  FRANK]  got  him  to 
do  the  job,  and  that's  the  truth,  so  help  me  heaven.  And 
he  did  it  for  my  sake.  He  thought  I  wanted  the  money. 
[EDME  produces  a  handkerchief  and  weeps.]  But  I  didn't. 
I  wanted  to  go  straight  and  live  honest.  [MRS.  HAMMOND 
and  DICK  are  crying.]  If  he  goes  up  the  river  now,  it'll 
be  all  up  with  us,  we  won't  be  able  to  start  in  again,  we'll 
be  to°  old-  [Bos  and  MAGGIE  weep. 

LLOYD.     You  sound  as  if  you  meant  it. 

BESSIE.  I  do,  I  do.  Give  us  our  chance,  Mr.  Lloyd,  give 
us  our  chance. 

[She  breaks  down;  sobs  loudly.  The  police 
men  have  turned  away.  Their  shoulders 
heave.  Everybody  is  weeping. 

[Tense  pause. 

LLOYD.  [Very  quietly.']  Don't  cry,  my  girl,  I'm  going 
to  withdraw  the  charge. 

[Every  one  exclaims  with  joy.  The  stage  is 
suddenly  darkened.  The  lights  come  on 
again,  and  the  scene  is  the  restaurant  once 
more. 

HASTINGS.  [In  horror.]  Stop,  stop.  It's  unbelievable. 
I  refuse  to  hear  another  word. 

CASPER.  My  dear  man,  that  play  will  run  a  year  on 
Broadway. 

HASTINGS.     My  God,  no!     Impossible!! 
CASPER.     Do  you  mean  to  say — 

[They  rise  angrily.     The  waiter  intervenes. 


544  PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS        [Part  II 

WAITER.  [Quickly.]  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  I  can't 
stand  by  and  see  you  misunderstand  each  other  in  this 
way.  You  are  both  unfair.  You,  sir,  have  written  a  good 
play,  and  so  have  you.  But  if  you  compromise,  gentlemen, 
taking  a  little  from  your  play,  and  a  little  from  yours,  sir, 
you  will  have  a  better  play — a  play  that  is  both  artistic 
and  popular. 

CASPER.    How  do  you  know  so  much  about  the  drama  ? 

WAITER.     I've  had  experience  sir. 

CASPER.     Experience!     Who  are  you? 

HASTINGS.    Wait  a  bit.    I've  seen  him  somewhere  before. 

WAITER.  Very  possibly,  sir.  I  used  to  work  for  Mr. 
Shaw,  sir. 

[He  goes. 

CASPER.  And,  by  Jove,  he's  right.  That's  it:  you  and  I 
must  collaborate. 

HASTINGS.  Collaborate!  My  dear  sir,  even  your  public 
won't  stand  for  that.  [He  turns  to  the  audience.]  Will 
you? 

Quick  Curtain. 


(The  End.) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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